


It's So Meta Even This Acronym

by Mazabrei (Dieupardonne)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2009!phan, 2009x2012, 2009x2012x2017, 2012!Phan, 2017!Phan, A/B/O, Alternate Universe - A/B/O, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguous Relationships, American High School AU, Bodyswap, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Camp Nanowrimo, D/s relationship, Darkiplier - Freeform, Determinism, Dystopia, Full time D/s, Light Angst, M/M, Pastel Dan and Punk Phil, PastelxPunk, Post-Apocalypse, Septiplier AWAY!, Sexual Tension, Snowed In, Strangers to Friends, antisepticeye, minor fluff, pastel!dan, present day, punk!phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dieupardonne/pseuds/Mazabrei
Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester lead anything but normal lives, but they were content with the direction they’d taken and happy with their current situation. But soon, they begin to realize that things aren’t right anymore; they’re not in the world they should be.“That’s because you’re ruining our fucking lives, you sadist,” Dan said, scowling at the ceiling. He seemed to be ignoring the fact that his insolence would have consequences.“What stupid trope are you putting us in next?” Phil asked wearily.“It doesn’t even matter, does it?” Dan said, “They’re going to keep writing it as long as they want. They’ll find a trope.”“But only if people read it,” Phil said.“Then don’t read this stupid, overblown story!” Dan yelled at the ceiling, “You’re enabling this horrible author. You’re making us suffer.” While Dan was speaking, Phil had a realization.“All of this…” Phil said in horror, “All of this dialogue we’re giving. We’re helping them shill this story.”Title from xkcd's "Hofstadter".





	1. Unaware

Dan sat in his sofa crease, scrolling through tumblr. He had a word document in another window, so he could claim he was writing a script for a video. He scowled as he came across another “rip Dani Snot On Fire” joke. He was really beginning to regret the rebranding. It had seemed so necessary, but it turned out to be so much work. Changing all his social media, changing the links in all his video descriptions, contacting everyone he'd ever done a collab with to ask them to change his information. Maybe he should keep the placentas in the trash but give up on Daniel Howell. It would be months before anyone really knew him as that name…if they ever did. That stupid teenage screen name might stick with him for life, no matter how hard he tried.

He sighed loudly, hoping for sympathy from the man on the other side of the couch. But Phil was absorbed in something on his own laptop and didn't seem to hear. He was still in Star Wars pajamas and Dan had to recheck the time. It was three in the afternoon. They'd been slipping into the habit of slobbing around, sometimes not even changing into real clothes.

Dan realized he'd thought the word “pajamas” instead of “pyjamas”. He shook his head slightly; he'd been spending too much time on the American-dominated internet. He found himself using ‘miles’ and ‘dollars’, too. There was no escaping the Americanisms. Maybe he'd do a video about that. He was certain someone had made a compilation video of every time he used an Imperial measurement or American word. He opened his document of video ideas and jotted it down. He frowned. It was thin, but maybe he could at least shitpost about it.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses of Ribena. He frowned as he walked back to the living room. Wasn't he supposed to be decoupling himself from Ribena? He couldn't—

Wait. He'd said living room. Had he ever said that before in his life? It was the _lounge_.

He sat the two glasses down on the coffee table. It caught Phil's attention and he mumbled a thanks before grabbing it and drinking. Dan saw the way he held the glass and couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud. He was remembering a video he saw on tumblr that made fun of how they held glasses and how they drank.

“Hmm?” Phil asked, hearing Dan laugh.

“Did you ever see that ‘your fave is problematic’ video about how we drink? I can't remember if I sent it to you,” Dan said.

“Yeah, I did,” Phil said and laughed. He looked down, adjusted his grip, and then frowned. “It feels strange.” He laughed again and Dan smiled amusedly. They went back to their own laptops. Phil was _actually_ writing a script for a video. Dan took another drink then stared blankly at his screen.

The day stretched on. Dan started looking for games for their next video. Phil tapped away at his script. There was evening, and there was morning. Tuesday.

 

Wednesday saw Dan wake up unusually early. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned. Why was he up at—he checked his phone—seven in the morning? There was no reason for this stupid consciousness.

He gave up with a sigh and threw off his greyscale bedcovers. There was no use sitting in bed trying to sleep when he clearly wasn't tired. He shivered as he sat shirtless. It was unseasonably cool for…fall? He frowned. It had taken him several seconds to remember what season it was. What was going on with him lately?

He got dressed—okay, so it was only a t-shirt and sweatpants. But it was better than pajamas. He ran his fingers through his hair and brushed his teeth. Staring into the mirror, he frowned at himself. It had been a weird couple weeks and his face was showing it. Purplish bags sat under his eyes and he looked paler than he should. He splashed water on his face and some color returned to his cheeks. But his complexion was definitely less olive and more pink than usual—he looked like Phil.

Shaking his head, he flipped the light off and shuffled to the kitchen. He poured himself cereal and headed to the lounge, where he flipped on the television. He couldn't watch anything new—Phil wasn't up, and probably wouldn't be for a few hours. He settled for an old episode of Steven Universe and started on his cereal.

A couple of episodes had played when he realized he was staring at the screen without seeing anything. His bowl was empty, sitting on the coffee table. Again, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind. What had gotten into him? He felt strange the past few days, but it just kept getting worse. Every moment was worse than the last: fuzziness, confusion, disorientation. Maybe he was getting sick.

He opened his laptop and pulled up his email, intending to respond to business emails. He had gotten through exactly two when he decided he was fed up with them. There were a few too many pointed “Daniel Howell”s to be entirely professional. Why wouldn't people leave him alone about it?

He logged into his Internet Support Group email for shits and giggles. There were hundreds of thousands of unread messages. But these ones weren't overwhelming. He was under no obligation to answer _any_ of them.

He tried to pick earnest ones to read. The funny ones were best read and reacted to on camera. But he probably wasn't doing another ISG for months anyway, and he liked he use relatively fresh ones when he did, so what did it matter? Whatever. He clicked on another with the subject “Should I go to grad school?”

It explained that this student had just finished her degree and was planning on going to a four-year graduate school. But she was feeling burned out. But there were literally no jobs available in her field with only a bachelor's degree. After a lengthy explanation, she said she had been listening to everyone's advice. Her sister told her to stay in school, but a close friend told her to take a break. And _somebody once told me_ —

Dan broke out laughing. He couldn't stop himself—they'd caught him completely off guard. He wiped the corners of his eyes and starred the email to show Phil.

As if on cue, soft _thuds_ echoed down the hall. Phil was tired, he'd seen that Dan was awake, and so he didn't care that he was all but stomping. He fixed himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and made his way blearily into the lounge.

“Couldn't sleep,” he mumbled by way of explanation. He looked it. His glasses were askew, his hair rumpled, and his mouth set stiffly, as though he'd been grinding his teeth.

“Sorry,” Dan said, moving the television remote to beside Phil's bowl. “Anything you want to watch?”

“This’s fine,” he nodded at the screen and pressed a button to resume the episode that Dan had paused.              

Dan considered showing him the ISG email he'd read, but figured that he'd wait until Phil woke up a little. He wasn't known for his early-morning sense of humor. No, even on the tour, his raven-haired friend—

Dan actually snorted out loud.

“Hmm?” Phil said, not bothering with a full question. Dan shrugged off the feeling of déjà vu.

“Have you ever noticed the fandom leaking into your real life?” Dan asked him. Phil looked blankly at him, so he continued. “Like when you see something on tumblr or read something in fanfiction enough times that you start to incorporate it into the way you think?”

“I don't think so,” Phil said, frowning a little in thought. His voice was still gravelly with sleep. “What happened?”

“I just referred to you as my ‘raven-haired friend’ in my internal monologue,” Dan said, halfway between amused and embarrassed.

“What the heck,” Phil said, laughing. “Stop reading so much fanfic.”

“I know, I know,” Dan said, “Besides, that would require us being friends.” Phil stuck his tongue out at Dan, who just laughed.

“You know, maybe I get it,” Phil said after a moment of thought, “I've seen you portrayed so many times that sometimes I catch myself thinking you're a nice person.”

“What a crock of shit, you never think that.”

“I did once.”

“Psh, when?”

“Do you think I would have wanted to meet you if I knew you were such a dick?”   

Dan reached over and kicked Phil. Not hard enough to hurt, though. Maybe.

The more years that passed, the more they were comfortable teasing each other. They'd grown more secure in their partnership and they'd both become more confident; Dan from 2009 would have been devastated to hear his idol call him a dick.

Then again, Dan thought, 2009 Dan wouldn't have thought his idol would prank him with habanero gummy bears. Or put a banana peel down the back of his shirt on camera. He still hadn't gotten revenge on Phil for that. He'd have to come up with something fittingly awful, but still believable…

Dan spent a few seconds staring at Phil's profile as the latter scrolled away on his laptop. Phil looked tired too. His jaw was still tight. It looked like he'd had several bad nights in a row. Maybe the new house had a gas leak too, Dan thought bitterly. At least it would explain why he felt so strange.

“We should do something,” Dan said suddenly.

“Like what? Why?” Phil asked, surprised, as he looked up from his laptop.

“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, “Something. We’ve been cooped up for too long. It’s weird.”

“We just came back from Vidcon,” Phil reminded him, “Traveling halfway around the world and back isn’t exactly cooped up. And since when do you have a problem staying inside all day?”

“Since the tour,” Dan said, “It’s just one giant letdown since then. Relaxing was good for a while. Now it just feels like nothing.”

“Okay, then, what do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you have an idea.”

“Come on, I know you’re just humoring me. Don’t you want to do something? I feel like I’m imploding.”

Phil sighed and closed his laptop. “Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what you’re on about. You’ve been happy to stay put for months now. Did something change?”

“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, rubbing his forehead, “I feel strange. Like something is different or there’s something in the air. I was kind of hoping you’d know what I mean.”

“Tell you what,” Phil said, “I have the next game picked out. We’ll shoot a gaming video then do something. Get out of the house. Whatever you’d like.”

“Can’t we do it now?"

“No. Work comes first.”

Dan groaned. “Yes, _Dad._ ”

“Stop calling me that!”

“I’ll stop when you stop acting like a dad,” Dan said. He pulled himself off the sofa and started to walk to his room.

“I wouldn’t have to act like a dad if you acted like an adult,” Phil said to his back. Dan looked back and stuck his tongue out at Phil. “You’re proving me right!” Phil said, laughing. He, too, had to drag himself up and to his bedroom.

The gaming video went badly. Humorously badly, hopefully. They’d played GeoGuessr and probably offended a wide variety of viewers. They were both well-traveled; who’d have thought they would do so utterly horribly? Dan had bragged about doing geography at A level and then failed spectacularly. But it was a Dan vs Phil and Phil wouldn’t let his win go to waste, so they’d just have to hope that no one was legitimately offended.

Phil turned the camera off and plugged it in to let the footage upload to the computer.

“So, you wanted to go somewhere?” He asked Dan.

“What about the park?” Dan suggested.

“You hate the park,” Phil pointed out, frowning.

“I changed my mind. Just for a bit, okay? Then we’ll order in tonight.”

“Pizza. And you’re paying.”

“Fine,” Dan said, “But we’re leaving right now. So you can’t weasel out of this.” He walked out of the room to put his shoes on.

“What is with you?” Phil asked to his back, shaking his head.

He followed Dan and shoved his shoes on. The younger man waited at the door, bouncing slightly, impatient. When Phil was ready, they stepped out and began the walk. The wind bit at Dan’s face, but he’d left his jacket at home intentionally.

Maybe if he got cold enough, he’d remember how much he hated being outside. He’d want to go back in and hibernate with his laptop. He’d stop being so restless. Or maybe the fresh air would revive him. He wasn’t sure which he wanted more. Anything to stop this bizarre ambiance that apparently only he could feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dragged myself out of bed for once to do Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm behind schedule, but it's the most writing I've done in months, so I'll take it.  
> Feel free to critique this. Like seriously. Give me feedback. Please.  
>   
> 


	2. Dawning

It was walking in the park that Dan first felt it. He was being watched. It wasn’t the _feeling_ of being watched—it was reality. He looked around casually, expecting to find a fan freaking out in the distance or approaching meekly. But there was nothing.

He actually turned on the spot, scanning around them. There was no one in sight watching them, but he couldn’t shake this horrible, overwhelming feeling of paranoia. The park was full of trees, full of potential hiding places—he turned again, convinced he would see something. A couple walking hand-in-hand looked at him strangely. The man whispered something into his partner’s ear and they changed direction, walking away from Dan pointedly.

“Dan?” Phil’s voice startled Dan, who had momentarily forgotten that he wasn’t alone. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing dazed, several meters behind Phil. Dan shook his head slightly, trying to clear it, and walked up alongside Phil.

“Are you feeling okay, Dan?” Phil asked, looking concerned.

“I’m not sure,” Dan admitted, “I think I might be getting sick.”

“You’ve been acting very strange,” Phil said doubtfully.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s pre-flu brain fog,” Dan said, then paused. “Is that a thing?”

“I don’t think so,” Phil said, unable to stop himself from smiling slightly.

“Do you feel like someone’s watching us?” Dan asked him, hoping against hope that he did.

“Well,” Phil hesitated, “No, not really.”

Dan sighed and they resumed walking. Phil was becoming increasingly worried about his friend, who was acting completely out of character today. And now he felt like he was being watched? It was legitimately concerning.

But the farther they walked, Phil thought, the heavier the air seemed to get. The leaves were moving more than they should be. He glanced over his shoulder once without realizing it. Then he did it again. Dan noticed.

“You feel it too,” Dan accused.

“It’s weird,” Phil said, frowning, “I keep expecting to see a fan or something. But there’s no one. It’s a bad movie cliché.”

“Are we in the beginning of a horror movie?” Dan asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I wouldn’t mind if we were,” Phil said flippantly, “I can run faster than you.”

“Yeah right,” Dan said, laughing, “I have longer legs than you.”

“By what, a centimeter?” Phil said, “We’re basically the same height.”

“Oooh, Philly doesn’t want to admit he’s shorter?” Dan pouted.

“Shut up!” Phil said, laughing, “Besides, I’m the reason you’re this tall.”

Dan was genuinely thrown. “How do you figure?”

“Well, you sure as hell weren’t cooking. I fed you so well you grew three inches.”

“Oh my god,” Dan said, laughing, “Do you realize how bad that sounds?”

“Oh, shut up,” Phil said, joining in with Dan’s laughter.

Suddenly Dan stood stock still. The color drained from his face.

“Dan? Dan, are you okay?” Phil asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Did you hear that?” Dan said quietly.

“Dan, we need to get you to the doctor. Something’s wrong,” Phil said. He was alarmed, his mind racing ahead. He couldn’t think of anything off the top of his head, but weren’t there a bunch of illnesses that caused sudden behavior changes? Or what if Dan was having a psychotic break? Or—

“I’m serious!” Dan said angrily, pulling his shoulder away from Phil’s hand, “There’s—I can hear—it’s like a keyboard. I’m not crazy!” He added when Phil started to interrupt him.

“I think you were right, you’re probably coming down with the flu,” Phil said, trying to soothe him, “You shouldn’t be out in the cold. Let’s get you back home and into bed, yeah?”

Dan dropped his face into his hands. He could hear the worry in Phil’s voice. Maybe he was right to be worried. He looked up as Phil took ahold of his elbow and started walking them back towards home. Dan let himself be steered and stared blankly ahead.

He could still hear it. It was like the click of keys on a keyboard. Every time he moved, every time Phil moved. It was so _real_ —it didn’t sound like it was in his head. But then it wouldn’t, would it? He squeezed his eyes closed, following where Phil was leading. He wished he could cut off his hearing like he could cut off his sight. He could cover his ears, but if the noise really was in his head, it wouldn’t stop—and he didn’t want to face the possibility that he was imagining it.

Phil considered calling a cab to take them home. It was a long enough walk that it would save time. But he was worried that Dan might not respond well to the driver or to the wait for the car or to the idea of taking a cab…. Under normal circumstances, they’d never take a cab, and the last thing he wanted was to tip off Dan about just how worried he was.

But Dan knew exactly how worried Phil was. And he himself was even more worried. He was twenty-six—a very typical age for the onset of schizophrenia. Or any type of psychosis. He’d said he wasn’t crazy, but was he? He wasn’t sure if Phil was actually taking them home or if he was bringing him straight to the doctor. He wasn’t sure which would be more appropriate.

Phil was, actually, aiming for their flat. He prayed to every deity ever created that they wouldn’t run into a fan. Or any delay, really. He wasn’t going to relax until Dan was safely in the flat, preferably sitting on the sofa, distracted by an anime so Phil could figure out what was going on.

They made it to their house without incident. Dan leant back against the wall while Phil locked the door behind them. Neither was sure what to do next.

“I know you think I’m crazy,” Dan said quietly, “But I swear I’m not. I don’t think. Maybe I am.”

“I just think you should calm down, and maybe we’ll go to the doctor,” Phil said soothingly.

Dan walked willingly into the lounge and flopped onto the sofa, stretched out the entire length of it. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. What was going on? He could still hear the clicking. He didn’t want to go to the doctor. He wasn’t crazy. Was this what crazy felt like?

“Just give me a bit,” Dan said after a while. Phil had been standing, leaning against the wall, surveying his friend. “Just give me a bit to calm down. If I’m still…. In a couple hours. We can go to the doctor. Or something.”

“Okay,” Phil said hesitantly after a moment, “We’ll put something on. Move over, yeah?”

Wordlessly, Dan sat up and shuffled over to let Phil sit. The younger man grabbed the remote and turned on Steven Universe. He pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapped himself in it. Maybe if he got comfortable and focused on the show, he could calm down. He could fall asleep then wake up and he’d have the flu and this will have been a weird prodrome.

As casually as possible, Phil opened his laptop and began to search. Auditory hallucinations, psychosis, sudden behavior change—even folie à deux when he remembered that he’d shared Dan’s feeling of being watched. Everything he read made him panic a little bit more. There was no obvious, glaring answer, so it could be anything and everything.

He glanced over at Dan, who was curled up in his fuzzy blanket. Times like these, he remembered he was the older of the two. It mattered much less now, but back in 2009…. Dan had been barely eighteen and Phil had felt so responsible for him. That feeling was returning. He should be able to help his friend—he should be able to fix this. He looked over and hoped that Dan’s eyes would be closed in sleep.

But Dan hadn’t succeeded in falling asleep. It was only after two episodes that he decided to give up and face the fact that this was happening. It wasn’t going to go away. He had to deal with it.

“It just sounds so real,” he told Phil quietly. He knew the older man would hear him. “Is this what hallucinations are like? That you actually…you know they might be hallucinations, but they still seem real?”

“I’m not sure,” Phil admitted. He paused. “I’m glad you’re calmed down, but I’m still worried about you. Maybe you could humor me and go to the doctor.”

“Please, no,” Dan said, knowing how pathetic his begging sounded, “Like I said, just give me a bit longer. We’ll figure it out.”

“Dan…”

“I’m scared, Phil,” Dan said, almost inaudibly, “What if they tell me I’m crazy?”

Phil paused a moment. His natural reaction was to tell Dan that he wasn’t crazy, of course he wasn’t—but could he honestly say that this time? He went for something more neutral, but no less true.

“We’ll get through this,” Phil said, quietly confident. He set his laptop down on the table and moved closer to Dan, who leaned into him. Phil wrapped his arms around the younger man, intending to comfort him only briefly. But Dan dropped his head to Phil’s shoulder and the latter was, not unpleasantly, stuck in that position.

They were quiet. The air in the room settled around them and time seemed to stand still. Dust motes in the air froze, the London traffic dropped to silence. They were safe. They were together. If any two people could do this, it was Dan and Phil. They’d figure it out. It would be okay. Phil felt his shoulders relax as he reminded himself of this. Nothing had ever stopped them before. Nothing ever would stop them.

It was here, in this still moment—in the safety of the flat and Dan’s blanket—it was here that Phil began to hear the clicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my chapters are short. Fight me.


	3. Self-Aware

It began softly. Phil tried his hardest to ignore it. It would go away, right? He was imagining things. But the moments dragged on.

Dan had felt Phil tense up suddenly, just as he himself had done earlier at the park. Had Phil begun to hear it to? Would he be proven not crazy? But Phil didn’t say anything. He stayed quiet and perfectly still, until Dan broke the silence.

“Do you hear it too?” Dan asked, hesitant and morbidly hopeful. He didn’t know what was going on, and it scared the shit out of him, but if Phil heard it too….

There was a very long moment. The silence was all the answer Dan needed. He sat up, breaking apart the embrace.

“I told you I’m not crazy,” he said, just a little bit of smugness creeping into his tone.

“Not funny,” Phil said with annoyance.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You had that stupid tone.”

“Calm down—“

“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down when we’re both hallucinating?”

“You were telling me to calm down when I was.”

“That was different—“

“Oh, because I’m already crazy? It only matters when it happens to you?”

“Shut up!” Phil yelled. Dan snapped his mouth shut. Phil very rarely yelled. He lost his temper, sure, even raised his voice—but he never screamed. Phil dropped his head into his hands, leaning forward and dragging his fingers into his hair.

“Phil,” Dan said very softly, “You said we’d get through it. I believed you. Now you just have to believe it, too.” It was Phil’s turn to lean into Dan. But this time, the room didn’t still or quiet. The keyboard was growing more insistent for both of them.

Their relationship was normally a give-and-take. They took turns being the rational one or the impulsive one or the unstable one or the soothing one. But never before had it been so evident in such a short period of time. They were balanced. They had personas online, different per channel and even per video—oftentimes it appeared as though Dan had the upper hand. But in reality, away from the cameras, they were equal partners. They wouldn’t have lasted eight years if they weren’t.

Dan frowned. Why was he waxing poetic about their relationship? He didn’t often think about the two of them in such abstract ways. He preferred concrete descriptions: they took turns making coffee and they waited to have breakfast until the other woke up. He’d seen plenty of tumblr posts gushing about the concept of home and how he and Phil were each other’s homes. But he didn’t like thinking that way. It sounded suspiciously like “destiny” to him.

“Is it like…like typing?” Phil asked hesitantly, “Like clicking, but sometimes it goes quickly, sometimes slowly, sometimes stops.”

“Exactly like that,” Dan said. They were quiet for a moment before he continued, “So…what’s going on? And how do we fix it?”

Phil smiled a little. Dan was always the one to jump into the practicalities. He himself was thinking of all the cosmic reasons this could be happening—karma for plaguing their neighbors with noise or the bizarre beginning of a soul-searching journey. But he knew Dan would have none of that. He’d be focused on the mental effects of prolonged gas leaks or shared psychosis. Of course, Phil knew this was, in part, a coping mechanism. Something like this, that was so clearly unnatural, was terrifying to Dan, who believed only in what could be empirically proven.

Wait, why was he thinking so deeply and concretely about Dan? Phil didn’t usually have a verbal inner monologue…. He shook his head. This was probably just part of whatever was happening.

“What?” Dan asked about Phil’s head shake. He hesitated, but decided to answer honestly. Things couldn’t get any weirder.

“I was just thinking about you in a weird way,” Phil said, then punched Dan’s shoulder when he raised an eyebrow suggestively, “Like I was narrating or something. As though I didn’t already know everything about you or I was explaining it to someone else.”

“The same thing was happening to me earlier,” Dan said, nodding, “It’s probably just part of this. Whatever this is.”

“I mean, I don’t usually have an inner monologue with words. It’s just…ideas. You know?” Phil said.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, sometimes I sort of narrate to myself. But it’s always from my perspective. Today it was as though I was talking to someone else.”

“You know what it reminds me of?” Phil said slowly, “It’s…you know how in a lot of fiction, the thoughts are unrealistic? How the main character will see a friend and then think back through the story of how they met, even though that’s not how it works.”

“You’re right,” Dan said, frowning, “That’s so strange. What if—” For the second time that day, the color drained from his face.

“Dan? You okay?” Phil said, worried about a further development. Dan seemed to be more perceptive to all of this than he was….

“Just humor me, okay?” Dan mumbled, then squared his shoulders and addressed the room at large, “I absolutely do not believe in you. But if you exist, do something. Say something. Stop being a dick and leaving us in the dark.”

“Who are you talking to? What are you talking about?” Phil asked, bewildered. Then again, the last time Dan started acting strangely, he ended up being correct about what was happening.

Dan had the sudden urge to open his laptop, which lay forgotten on the coffee table. He frowned when he saw a Safari window open—he was sure he had closed everything. Two tabs were open: the Wikipedia page for “meta-reference” and the homepage of Archive of Our Own. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and inhaled for seven seconds, exhaled for eleven.

“Phil,” Dan said carefully, “I think we’re in a fanfiction.”

“What?” Phil said, more confused than disbelieving, “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re not the real Dan and Phil. We’re story characters that are being written. We’ve just become self-aware.”

“But—”

“The clicking is the sound of the author writing us.”

“It can’t—”

“I was thinking in Americanisms earlier. The author is American and doesn’t know how to write British dialogue.”

“What—”

“The overwrought narration is the author’s writing of our thoughts.”

“No—”

“Phil,” Dan said, sighing, “Do you really think you’d try to interrupt me four times and that I’d just keep talking over you?”

“You totally would talk over me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know,” Phil said, looking down, “I just don’t want to think about it.”

“Me neither.” ****

They sat quietly for a few moments, each lost in their own over-narrated inner monologue. Phil rubbed the back of his neck and Dan ran a hand through his hair. He was the one to break the silence.

“What next?”

The question hung heavy in the room. There were dozens more behind it. What had made them become self-aware? How much autonomy did they actually have? When did they diverge from the real Dan and Phil? Had they ever been the real versions? Where would this plot take them? Was it angst and one of them was going to die, or smut and they would be mortally humiliated as someone forced them to have sex? Would they ever return to the real world? What was their ultimate fate?

Dan suddenly made a strangled noise. Phil wasn’t sure if it was a sob or a laugh. When he looked over at Dan, his head was in his hands and he was shaking slightly. When he raised his head, his eyes were red and he had a strange sort-of smile on his face.

“If you suggest getting a hamster, I am diving in front of a train.”

“Oh my god,” Phil said, understanding Dan’s expression. It was morbidly funny. They had no clue what was going on. For all they knew, Phil would find an antique chair in the attic. Phil would forget sunscreen. He frowned—why did all the shock fics start with him? He decided not to open that can of worms. “Can you, though? How much control do we actually have?”

“Given that we’re discussing this, I think we have some, at least,” Dan said, frowning in thought, “And what would be the point of writing a meta-fic where the characters are self-aware but unable to do anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Phil said, “But I don’t think I’m sure of anything right now.”

“Let me try something,” Dan said. He sucked in a huge breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, “PHIL IS A BOTTOM, DAN TOPS 2K17!”

“Shut up! The neighbors will hear! And what are you even on about?”

“We have some level of autonomy,” Dan said calmly and decisively, “No self-respecting fanfiction writer would allow those phrases into their story. Don’t worry about the neighbors. Unless they’re a part of the story, they won’t hear us.”

Phil shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re taking this in such stride. It seems like you’d be having a crisis about free will and determinism.”

“I might still be in denial,” Dan said, frowning slightly, “Or maybe they’re writing me taking it in stride because existential crises are fun to reference but not fun to write and read in detail.”

“But…like you said, what next? Do we just try to live as though we’re in real life? Do we keep answering emails and making videos? Does any of it matter?” Phil said, beginning to fret.

“You sound like me,” Dan said, smiling slightly, “But it’s my turn to calm you down. We were the real Dan and Phil at some point, right? We have memories that no fan knows about. We had lives before anyone wrote fanfiction about us. So we can find a way back to that. We can, I don’t know, merge back into real life.”

“I guess,” Phil said doubtfully, “I mean, we don’t really have any other options.”

Silence fell again. It felt much later than it was; they’d gone to the park quite early. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet, but it felt as though it should be dark outside. As if on cue, Dan’s stomach growled audibly.

“Maybe you could write us some Thai,” Dan addressed the room snarkily.

“What are you doing? Don’t taunt them! They have control over us!” Phil said.

“Yeah, but they’re giving me free will,” Dan pointed out, “If they didn’t want me to say it, I wouldn’t be saying it.”

“What even is this?” Phil asked, rubbing his eyes. It was too tiring. Dan seemed so natural at this—he had felt it first, he had figured it out, and now he was accepting it. But Phil was still stuck in the horror of the fact that he wasn’t real. But…what was real? Even if he’s a story character and not fully autonomous, doesn’t a story character exist? They’re real. He sighed. This line of thought was Dan’s territory. They seemed to have switched roles.

“Let’s eat something,” Dan declared, “And watch some anime. I don’t think they’re going to throw us into anything tonight. Tomorrow will probably start a new chapter, right? This is the chapter where we realize that we’re in a story. The next chapter is the consequences of that realization and the beginning of the plot.”

“If you say so,” Phil said. He had told himself he wouldn’t be one of _those_ people, but… “I’m too damn old for this,” he muttered.

“You’re only thirty, mate,” Dan reminded him.

Dan got up and started towards the kitchen to make dinner. Phil was taking this entire situation much harder than he was, so the least he could do was cook for once. Phil also rose, but he walked to his bathroom. He removed his contacts, which were starting to ache after only a few hours. He splashed water in his face and stared at himself in the mirror, but unsurprisingly, the secrets of the universe did not reveal themselves.

When Phil returned in his glasses and pajamas, Dan was busy making some sort of stir-fry. Phil knew he should help, or at least offer to, but instead he flopped down on the sofa. He queued up Buffy on the television and stole Dan’s blanket.

He wasn’t sure if he had actually dozed off or if his mind just shut off temporarily. But it felt like only seconds passed before Dan was gently pushing his shoulder. The younger man handed him a bowl of something and pressed play on the remote.

Phil ate without tasting and set his bowl down on the table. He leaned into Dan without realizing it. The younger man shifted obligingly and Phil laid his head in Dan’s lap. When Dan finished eating, he set his bowl down and looked down at his friend. Phil was sleeping soundly.

There was no reason to do the dishes tonight, or even to pick them up and put them in the sink. Tomorrow was going to come soon enough, and it would probably hold horrors far worse than sticky, unwashed bowls. He smiled at Phil and gently took his glasses off, folding them and setting them next to his bowl. Dan turned the volume down on the television but left it playing, cycling through episodes they’d seen dozens of times.

Dan wasn’t sure what was going on or what to do next. He didn’t know if the author was malevolent or what horrors they would force upon the two men. But, Dan thought, if the author let them have each other, let them have moments like this, then maybe they could get through it. It would be as it always was: Dan and Phil against the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I was neglecting Phil, so I gave him some whump.
> 
> There's obviously a shitton of references in all of this, like the gaming video and the shock fics. I will only be linking things that are less general or harder to find, like specific tumblr posts or old liveshows. If you don't understand the hamster reference, god bless your soul, I am not linking you and taking your innocence.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil woke up on the sofa, confused and stiff. It took several moments for the previous day to come back to him in all its absurdity. He sat up and looked around, but Dan was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably sneaked out from under Phil and gone to sleep in an actual bed.

The older man stood up slowly, put his glasses on, and left the blanket on the couch. Dan would get annoyed if Phil forgot and left it in the kitchen, his next destination. He was jittery and his legs didn’t want to cooperate when he began to walk. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so apprehensive in his life. He had no way of knowing what was coming next and now he didn’t even have Dan beside him.

Except suddenly, he did. When he walked into the kitchen, he jumped back suddenly and let out a yelp. Dan was standing, looking extremely lost, in the middle of the kitchen. But this wasn’t his Dan—this Dan was shorter, skinner, and more timid. His eyes lit up, albeit cautiously, when he saw Phil. This was Dan as he had been in 2009.

Phil’s mind raced. He knew that this was a trope in the fanfiction of their fandom—he and Dan meeting versions of themselves from 2009 or 2012. Was a too-skinny, tired-looking Dan about to round the corner? A Phil with a mop of hair and no shame or a Phil with tired eyes and a clenched jaw? Where was his Dan? Did the younger version know what was going on? Should Phil tell him? Would he just accept it without questioning it, as they always did in time-travel fanfictions?

“Phil?” Dan asked quietly. Phil realized he’d been staring dumbfounded.

“Um, yeah,” Phil said, trying to gather some coherence, “Here, sit down.” He pulled out the orange chair for Dan, who frowned very slightly before sitting. Phil realized he’d never been in this house before, or even the London or Manchester flats, so he didn’t know that he usually sat in the orange chair. He might be wondering why Phil didn’t automatically pull out the black one. He might be thinking that Phil didn’t know he’d choose black or that he himself didn’t like black anymore. So much would change in eight years, Phil realized. So many everyday little details that came together to form their lives. He snapped back to the present once the overwrought monologue in his head ended.

“What’s…going on?” Dan asked uncertainly. Phil suddenly got the feeling that he shouldn’t complicate this by explaining the entire situation to this Dan. If the situation played out like it usually did in the stories, he wouldn’t be here for too long anyway.

“I don’t know,” Phil said, only half lying, “But welcome to 2017, I guess?”

“Do you _live_ here?” Dan asked, impressed.

“Well, you do too.”

“What?” Dan said, “We…live together?”

“Yup. We moved in together in 2011. This is our third flat. We’re in London, by the way.”

“Wait, you didn’t—” Dan stopped, blushed fiercely, and looked down.

“I didn’t what?”

“I thought you’d get tired of me,” Dan mumbled, “I’m just a fan.”

“Well, it’s eight years later and you’re the most important person in my life.”

The younger Dan broke into a smile, then tried to hide it and play it cool. Phil was hit with a pang of nostalgia. He loved his current Dan in all his snarky confidence, but quiet, timid Dan would always have a place in his heart.

“Are we still…I mean, are you two…” Dan asked shyly.

“Yup,” Phil said, cutting off his question and answering a different one, “We’re still on youtube. It’s gotten much bigger. You have six and a half million subscribers.” Phil realized he was bragging _about_ Dan _to_ Dan, but it wasn’t the weirdest thing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

“What the fuck,” Dan breathed out, eyes wide at the thought.

“Phil?” A voice called from down the hall, sounding partly annoyed and partly amused. The younger Dan’s eyes grew even wider, recognizing himself. “I found this little shit wandering around your bedroom…” Dan said before he had even reached the kitchen. When he did, he froze.

The two Dans stared at each other for a moment, but when Phil glanced away, he realized who his Dan had been talking about. He himself stood in the doorway, looking almost defiant; his hair was huge. He met his own eyes and the younger’s face filled with confusion. But it was soon replaced with a smile as 2009!Phil saw his friend. He tried to make it look casual as he strode across the kitchen and stood behind 2009!Dan possessively. The older pair decided to politely ignore the exchange.

“Speaking of little shits,” the older Dan said conversationally, nodding to his younger self. 2009!Dan glared at him, but didn’t have the courage to speak. Dan had known he wouldn’t. 2009!Phil, however, opened his mouth to sass back when his older version cut him off.

“Oh come off it, you’re cute,” older Phil said, both to reassure younger Dan and to placate younger Phil.

“Hey, where are we?” 2009!Phil asked his older counterpart, then nodded at older Dan, “He won’t tell me anything.”

“We’re in our flat in London,” Phil explained. Older Dan glared at him, to which he replied, “Oh come on, you know there won’t be consequence or anything because…reasons.” They shared a look and Dan nodded.

“What reasons?” 2009!Phil asked, looking at each of them. When neither of the older men responded, he groaned. “Oh my god, you’re like an old married couple. Wait a minute, are you—”

“Still on youtube,” older Dan confirmed, shutting the question down just as Phil had, “You have over four million subscribers. We also published two books and went on tour with a live stage show.” Younger Phil was finally quieted and impressed. “Oh, and we’re on pinof eight.”

“What’s pinof?” 2009!Phil asked, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“Oh,” Phil said with a laugh, “That’s the acronym for Phil is Not on Fire. The cat whiskers have sort of become a symbol of Dan and Phil.” The younger versions just sort of stared in disbelief at the older Phil.

“What do you mean, you did a live stage show?” Younger Dan asked after a moment of silence. Before anyone had the chance to respond, there was a loud stomping coming from Dan’s bedroom.

“No,” older Dan said, “Not this fucking asshole. I swear to god…” He exchanged an exasperated look with older Phil, who just shrugged. It was going to happen regardless.

Sure enough, another Dan strode into the room. Both older men recognized him, down to the month. It was Dan from August 2012, complete with a loose t-shirt and bags under his eyes. This Dan was momentarily stunned to see two versions of himself and two versions of Phil in the kitchen, but the confused expression he wore was soon overtaken by one of annoyance.

“What the fuck is going on?” He demanded.

“Stop stomping and swearing and I’ll tell you,” the oldest Dan said icily. Although none of the fanfiction he’d read wrote this period very accurately, and although the Dan in front of him wasn’t very accurate—he still didn’t like thinking about that era and he was prepared to give himself hell.

“Oh, what, future me doesn’t swear? Has Phil gotten to you?” 2012!Dan said mockingly.

“Listen here, you little shit,” oldest Dan said, grabbing his arm and getting in his face. It’s not like he could get in trouble for manhandling _himself._ “You’re acting like an ass because you’re scared. In here and in the rest of your life. You have no idea what you have going for you. And you’re going to regret every single thing you say when you’re angry, so shut your fucking mouth.”

Oldest Dan let go of himself, who stumbled back a step. 2012!Dan stared at him with a mixture of fear, confusion, and disgust. But his oldest self was smiling genuinely. Very rarely did people get the opportunity to give their younger selves advice. Of course, he knew that 2012!Dan would cease to exist the moment he left this story and it wouldn’t actually matter. But it was satisfying nonetheless.

A moment later, oldest Dan actually looked around. The Dan and Phil from 2009 simply looked confused. Oldest Phil was smiling slightly and shaking his head. And 2012!Phil, who had entered unnoticed, was leaning against the wall with a frown, looking as though he wanted to defend his attacked friend.

“What _happened?_ ” said the youngest Phil, looking between the feuding Dans, “What year are they from and what did he _do?_ ”

2012!Dan sighed angrily. “There was a video—”

“Called ‘The Meaning of Life’,” oldest Dan interrupted loudly and quickly, “A lot of things were building up for a while and we acted like a dick because we were afraid to face our own meaninglessness.” He glared at 2012!Dan, daring him to contradict him. He was determined to redirect himself because he refused to let the author explain what had happened as though they knew. They didn’t know. He could sometimes swallow his pride enough to read fanfiction involving the situation—but here, he had the ability to stop it, and he would stop it if it killed him. There was a tense silence; no one had believed Dan’s explanation and the youngest pair knew he was hiding something.

“Are we supposed to do something cliché now?” Oldest Phil asked his friend, “Like have them react to pinof8 or something?”

“That’s probably what they want,” Dan said, nodding toward the ceiling and rolling his eyes, “But it might be funny anyway. Or have them watch you ‘predicting my future’.”

“Or tell them that danisnotonfire is dead,” Phil said, “Just to confuse them.”

“Oh my god! The baking video!” Dan said, laughing.

“That’s the worst idea,” Phil said, joining in his laughter, “Let’s do it. But we should—”

“Why the fuck do you have a dating app on your phone?” 2012!Dan asked his older version angrily.

“Calm down, I did a sponsored video for them,” oldest Dan said, rolling his eyes.

“So you’re still—” 2012!Dan asked.

“Yup, still on youtube,” oldest Dan confirmed.

“You know that’s not what I was asking.”

“You’re not going to like any answer I give,” oldest Dan pointed out coldly.

“Fuck you,” 2012!Dan spat.

“I swear these two are children,” oldest Phil said, shaking his head.

“Agreed,” 2012!Phil said, smiling at himself but earning a glare from his friend.

“Come on,” oldest Phil said, knowing he had to be the one to break this up, “Let’s go watch and react to one of our newer videos because it’s cliché and maybe then we’ll be able to move on.” The four younger versions looked confused, but followed the oldest pair when they left the kitchen.

“Hey,” oldest Dan said quietly, so only his friend could hear him, “You know why the descriptions of our flat are so vague? We haven’t given a house tour. They have no idea where the kitchen or gaming room or lounge are.” Phil hummed in agreement. The six of them took a nondescript route and ended up in the gaming room, where oldest Phil booted up the computer.

“Hey, where’s the twink?” 2012!Dan asked. Oldest Dan whipped his head around and glared. He might have low self-esteem, but 2009!Dan felt even worse about himself and calling him names was just cruel.

“You insufferable twat,” oldest Dan said through clenched teeth at the manufactured version of himself. Oldest Phil agreed with him; this was not how Dan had acted in 2012. But he said nothing. For all his anger, 2012!Dan was very fragile and would be devastated to hear Phil, in any version, insult him with sincerity.

“He’s right,” 2012!Phil said, nudging his older self. The latter looked around, and indeed, there were only four of them in the room.

Oldest Dan shrugged. There was really no logic to past versions of themselves appearing, so why would there be any logic to when they left? He pulled up his channel and began scrolling to the baking video, but the videos were inexplicably out of order and the diss track appeared first. He rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘fuck you’ to the ceiling.

“What’s that?” 2012!Dan asked with confusion, gesturing to the thumbnail, “You look really stupid.”

“Well, prepare yourself, because apparently it’s been decided that this is what you’re watching,” oldest Dan said wearily. His younger counterpart gave him a confused look, but redirected his attention to the screen when the video began playing.

Oldest Phil smiled, remembering the too-many hours Dan had spent trying to write then rap the fast part. Oldest Dan smiled ruefully, still secretly proud of the video but not willing to admit it.

The opening set off a chuckle in 2012!Phil, but it soon became apparent that 2012!Dan was the one who was reacting most strongly. He was okay in the beginning—it was his standard self-depreciating humor. But then it went too far for him.

_You procrastinate making videos ‘cause being judged is scary, you’re so close to being forgotten the hate’s imaginary._

“What the fuck,” 2012!Dan said angrily, but he didn’t get the attention he wanted from 2012!Phil. So he reluctantly turned his attention back to the screen.

_The only reason you get views is you’re another white guy that people ship with his friend ‘cause they think it’s kawaii._

“That’s not—fucking—” The younger Dan spoke over the video, but the worst was yet to come.

_So your celebrity crush was j-law but now it’s Evan P? What the fuck even is your sexuality?_

“Too fucking far!” 2012!Dan finally broke and mashed the space bar to stop the video. He rounded on his older counterpart, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing! Everyone will think—”

“I don’t care what everyone thinks anymore,” older Dan said, stepping toward his younger self. He still had an inch on 2012!Dan, but the latter wasn’t intimidated.

“Why the fuck not!” 2012!Dan yelled, actually yelled, “They’ll ruin your life!”

“The only one ruining your life is you!” Older Dan yelled back. While both Phils agreed with him, they also both knew that this was going nowhere. Almost simultaneously, the Phils put a hand on the shoulder of their respective Dan in warning. The older Phil continued, leaning in until he could whisper to older Dan.

“He’s just being written like this,” Older Phil reminded him, “This isn’t you.” His Dan glared at him but knew he was right.

“I swear to god if they don’t take these two away soon…” Dan said, “I’m going to strangle them and this will _not_ be the type of fic they wanted to write.”

“Seriously?” 2012!Dan asked disdainfully, “You’re wearing your fucking hobbit hair now?” He’d clicked away from the diss track and was watching his latest Internet Support Group.

“It’s better than spending an hour everyday trying to straighten that mop on your head,” older Dan shot back, but his younger self didn’t respond. He was actually watching the video.

“I mean, it’s a little stupid, but it’s not the worst idea,” 2012!Dan said thoughtfully.

“I think the ninth video in a series just inspired the first video in that series,” older Phil commented.

“Is that any weirder than anything else going on?” Older Dan asked.

“True.”

Older Phil realized that his younger counterpart had been very quiet this entire time. He’d been leaning against the wall, watching more than interacting, aside from holding 2012!Dan back when he flipped out. Older Phil took a step over to him.

“It gets better,” the older told his younger counterpart simply.

“Does it?” The younger asked, laughing bitterly, “Because I’ve been told that things will never change.”

“He doesn’t mean what he says,” current Phil said, gesturing to where the Dans sat bickering over another video, “He’s scared and hurt. I know you’ve apologized. Hang in there and he’ll apologize too. I promise it gets better.”

“The way the younger Dan looked,” younger Phil said, “It just reminded me…it hasn’t always been like this. He used to adore me. Now it’s one-sided.”

“It’s not,” older Phil assured him, “No matter what he says. He still adores you. More than ever.”

“He has a strange way of showing it.”

“I know. But you’re in the worst right now. 2013 is better. And every year after that gets better than the last.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

“I think it’s time for you two to go,” older Dan said through clenched teeth, “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

“Is that a threat?” 2012!Dan shot back.

“Not to you,” older Dan said, then glanced at the ceiling.

And just like that, the two younger men were gone. Dan and Phil—the actual, present day Dan and Phil—looked at each other blankly. Dan started laughing.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Dan said, “We literally just lived out a oneshot fanfiction plot.”

“I don’t remember you being _that_ much of a dick in 2012,” Phil said.

“I don’t think I was. But you know that authors never get that year right.”

“Oh, I know. I wasn’t nearly that patient.”

“You were pretty damn patient.”

“But neither of us was innocent.”

“I know. We both know. The author doesn’t need to hear any more details. Let’s not provide our fandom with any more ammunition than they already have.”

“Is that why you didn’t let 2012-you tell 2009-you what happened?”

“Yeah. Either he was going to get it right and reveal more than we want the author to know, or he was going to get it wrong, and I hate when people assume they know what happened,” Dan said. Phil nodded. He was happy to put the time behind him. Dan was, too, but he still got annoyed at the presumptuous nature of the fanbase. No one _knew_ what happened, no matter how well they guessed.

“I sort of liked seeing you from 2009 again, though. He’s adorable,” Phil said, changing the subject.

“If you hadn’t thought so, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“You do realize that this dialogue is just the author’s way of having us reflect on our past, right?”

“Of course. And I’ve had enough of it. Let’s just get some dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck even was that.  
>   
> I should also mention that I'm not making fun of anyone or attacking anyone. I'm just not a good enough writer to actually write these plots so I just have to turn them all into shitposts.  
>   
> The next chapter might take a couple days. Not only because it's longer, but because inspiration bit me for another project. Not only is it not writing, it's not even the same freakin language. But if all goes well, I'll know Dan's diss track in sign language, so it may just be worth it.


	5. Can we title these?

Dan woke up in an unfamiliar bed. He stared up at the ceiling and knew instantly. His greyscale bedsheets were in place, and his Wirrow art was on the walls, but that was the extent of the resemblance to his room. It was much smaller, for one. His desk was crammed in the corner, blocking his way, and he was forced to get up on the wrong side of the bed. Literally.

He assumed that this was another plot, another tired trope. Was he in university? He cracked open his door and peeked out. It was a tiny flat. So not university. And if he was living by himself, he wasn’t in an American high school. It was a one-bedroom flat, so it was obviously some type of AU where he and Phil didn’t live together. Maybe he _was_ in university; maybe the author was a teenager who’d never set foot in a dorm and had frankly ridiculous expectations.

The bathroom, again, tiny. But it had all his regular brands of toiletries, down to the toothbrush. He frowned—how had the author known that? Then he remembered that he’d shown his bathroom several times, including in the video about blinding himself. They must have gone frame-by-frame and figured out what he used. The thought made him shudder a little as he realized that even if the author hadn’t done that, _someone_ had. It was fairly disturbing.

He considered not using the toiletries because he honestly felt violated. But then he remembered that, because he was a character, certain expectations of the world might not be accurate—these might not be the products the real Dan used, just what he had been written to expect. His fans weren’t _necessarily_ violating stalkers. The thought eased him enough that he didn’t feel the need to boycott the toothbrush. His mouth also tasted horrible, so that probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.

When he was ready, he returned to his unfamiliar room and looked in his closet. So this wasn’t a pastel or punk fic, either. Or at least, he wasn’t the one who was pastel or punk. Heaven knew where Phil was, what was happening to, and what trope he was being stuffed into.

Dan got dressed—in his colorful pocket t-shirt, just as an insult to the author, who probably wanted him to wear black. He stopped back in the bathroom to towel off his hair, then noticed the straightener on the counter. Was he supposed to use it? Was this a pre-hobbit-hair fic?

“Fuck you, I don’t give a shit,” he said out loud. He wasn’t going to cooperate with whatever plot the author had designed. He shook his hair out and walked into the lounge.

It was laid out somewhat familiarly—it almost looked like the flat in Manchester, with the kitchen open to the lounge. But it was smaller and missing a major component.

“What did you do to Phil, you fucker?” Dan asked to the ceiling. He had no way of knowing what had become of his friend, and he wouldn’t know until he complied.

Dan frowned. He didn’t like having words put in his head like that. And he really, really didn’t want to cooperate with whatever was being planned for him. But the flat was eerily quiet and he knew he couldn’t resist obeying if it meant he could reunite with Phil. It was strange and unsettling to be by himself in such an uncertain situation. He wanted his friend by his side.

He didn’t know what to do next. He hadn’t yet figured out which trope he was in, so he didn’t know what role Phil was playing and how to find him. He pulled out his phone, which had rested on his bedside table, to look for any additional information.

Well, there was no ‘Phil Lester’ in his contacts. And no creeper pictures of him stealing Dan’s cereal. He opened his email, thinking he could find out what he did for a living. He wasn’t a youtuber, judging by the crappy computer that had sat in his room.

There were two email accounts connected to his phone. A personal account, it seemed, and…a university email? Well, it ended in ‘edu’, anyway, and who actually used initials in email addresses except universities? He clicked open the ‘djh.27’ account and skimmed the emails.

He was, indeed, a uni student. He glanced around and huffed out a laugh. The author was going to be very disappointed by the reality of what sorts of housing students could afford. He scrolled down a little farther. By the looks of the class names he was a…philosophy major?

Dan actually laughed out loud. That was rich. He was sure it was supposed to be a clever reference to his existential crises, but he was at least slightly more practical than that. A philosophy degree wouldn’t pay the rent in London.

Wait, was he in London? He pulled up the map on his phone. Yes, he was still in London. In the same area as his last flat, actually. He frowned then zoomed in a little. He was actually in the same building. He didn’t think that that apartment building had any one-bedroom flats. Yet another example of the author having no idea how actual adult life worked.

Maybe Phil was in another flat here. There were neighbor fics, weren’t there? He was almost sure of it. How would he going about finding him, though? The other day, he’d been convinced that the neighbors didn’t matter. But going up to doors and knocking on them was a different scenario; if the author allowed him to do it then there would be consequences. Even if they weren’t real or lasting, he wanted to avoid any awkward encounters.

Dan decided to sit around and wait for something to happen. A fic with no plot was boring, so the author would have to, at some point, take action to kickstart the story. He had games on his phone, he had patience; he could wait.

Soon he realized that he had vastly overestimated his patience. He could only play so many rounds of Crossy Road. He leaned his head onto the back of the sofa and groaned. He had no direction of what he was supposed to do, and apparently the author would just skip through time until he did something. It was a standoff.

Dan broke first. He realized that he was facing a potentially omnipotent narrator and he would be forced to break first—so there was no use wasting time. He still didn’t know what he was supposed to do, however. He checked his phone—it was Saturday, so he wasn’t supposed to go to class. What did university students do when they weren’t in class?

He groaned. He was in a coffeeshop AU fic. He was positive that when he walked into Starbucks, Phil would be a barista. Nevermind that he dropped fifty percent of the cups that he picked up. But, once again, there was no use wasting time.

Checking his phone, Dan found that it was April. No need for a coat, then. It was also the perfect time for a date among blooming flowers. He rolled his eyes. He found his keys and locked the door behind him, wondering if it would matter if he neglected the minutiae. Surely the author wouldn’t write a break-in during what was supposed to be a sweet, fluffy coffeeshop AU.

The Starbucks was down the road, in the right location. He hoped again that this was his twisted expectations and not a result of the author knowing where he lived. And he didn’t live there anymore, anyway. He’d not given the same amount of information about his new flat, so they had no way of knowing where it was or if there was a Starbucks nearby. Well, obviously there was. This was London. But Dan was slightly comforted knowing that the author wasn’t trying to write the new flat.

He entered the building and, sure enough, Phil was behind the counter, cheerfully taking orders. Dan tried to meet his eye, but when Phil looked up, he scanned the room without looking at anyone in particular. As though he didn’t recognize anyone in the shop. Dan began to panic.

He hadn’t even considered the notion that Phil might lose his self-awareness, that he’d be written like an actual character with no meta-knowledge. Would Dan be able to convince him of the situation? Or would he have to live out this plot for an indefinite amount of time, trying to get Phil back by his side? This was cruel, uncalled for. He could handle being placed in an unfamiliar world with no control or insight—as long as Phil was by his side.

Dan scowled at the ceiling but realized that there was no use making a scene. He didn’t know if the author would leave him to his own devices if he caused mayhem. He’d try to subvert the plot, but he would have to do it more subtly. He stood in the queue.

When he reached the counter, he was hit with a pang of sorrow. His best friend was standing in front of him, cheerful and smiling but completely unaware of who Dan was. He’d have to get to know Phil over again, just as he had in 2009. But this time he had no background knowledge of the situation, who Phil was or what he liked or even what age he was.

“Hi. Grande caramel macchiato, please,” Dan said without thinking. He wanted to roll his eyes—the author probably thought these stupid little references were clever. But instead, he gave his winningest smile, knowing that any sort of sullenness could throw off this whole endeavor.

Phil smiled back. While it looked genuine, it was the same cheerful smile he had given the rest of the customers. There was no recognition in his eyes. Dan hated the author a little more with every movement Phil made.

He picked out the cup and scribbled the drink on it. Apparently the author didn’t actually go to Starbucks and didn’t know that they used printed labels now. Of course, with printed labels, there was no cover for the barista to write their phone number, as Phil was clearly doing now.

“And your name?” Phil asked.

“Dan,” he said, smiling. He was dying. Phil had asked his name one single time, in the very first twitter DM, just to make sure that his handle was accurate. He’d remembered Dan’s name from that point forward, even before they started talking regularly. The author was forcing him to remember and relive the uncertainty, the fear of rejection that he’d been filled with. But this time, the stakes were impossibly high: if Phil rejected him, he’d be devastated. Even in this world that he knew to be fake, to have his best friend not…. He didn’t want to think about it

Phil scribbled down his name and Dan swiped his card. He walked away and Phil directed his attention to the next customer.

Dan waited at the other end of the counter for several minutes before his drink was called. When he picked it up, the barista who’d put it down rolled her eyes. Dan actually smiled genuinely—finally, a realistic reaction to a barista writing their number on a cup.

He managed to grab a small table in the corner and looked at the cup. He had found himself laughing too often lately, considering the circumstances, but he did it again. The phone number wasn’t even in a British format. It was ten digits and began with a four. He’d already known the author was American, but apparently they weren’t even aware that different countries had different formats for phone numbers. He realized he could search the area code on the cup and probably find the area where the author lived. But he couldn’t see any benefit to doing that and it might piss them off.

Dan shook his head. Right, he had a plot to subvert. What did the author expect him to do? Probably wait until Phil approached him; he was often the reticent one in these fics. So he’d reach out first. He typed the American-style number into his phone and assumed that it would work despite being from the wrong continent. What should he text? He didn’t want to scare Phil off in case he didn’t immediately remember what was going on….

_hey, is this Phil?_

That was pretty safe. He glanced up at Phil, who was still taking orders at the register. Now, if he answered his phone in the middle of his shift, it was certain that the author had never held a job in their life. But he didn’t; if his phone went off, he didn’t acknowledge it. Dan found himself disappointed. Sure, it would have been ridiculously unrealistic, but it would have meant he could talk to Phil sooner.

Dan didn’t know how long he’d have to wait. Clearly, the author could skip ahead in time; they didn’t have to write every detail. So they could make him wait as long as they wanted. He didn’t even know if he should be waiting at all. Was he supposed to only text Phil at first, or would he come sit down with Dan after his shift? Was this a slow burn or a oneshot?

He wished he’d brought some schoolwork. That would at least give him an excuse to be sitting here for a while. As it was, he probably looked a little creepy, just waiting around. Would Phil be creeped out or put off? Dan decided that he’d wait until eleven. If Phil hadn’t come sit with him by then, Dan was clearly supposed to only text first. And that was only twenty minutes away, so he could believably be on his phone for that time.

As much as he tried to avoid it, Dan watched the minutes tick by on his phone. Twelve minutes left, then nine, then six…. It was at 10:58 that Dan heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, um, mind if I sit here?” Phil had his apron off and was standing uncertainly by the table.

“Not at all,” Dan said, trying to stop himself from beaming. He told himself to play it cool, not act like he was seeing an old friend…even though he was. He smiled as Phil pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. He felt like he was eighteen again, being noticed by Phil for the first time.

“Um, Dan, right?” Phil said, though he clearly remembered his name. There was just no other way to start the conversation, “Hi, um, I’m Phil.”

“Yeah, I saw your name tag,” Dan said, smiling. And we’ve lived together for six years so I should probably know your name, Dan thought to himself.

“I’ve not seen you here before,” Phil said, someone hesitantly, “Are you visiting? Or new here?” Dan’s mind went blank. He had no clue how long he was supposed to have been in that flat. It was April, so it was unlikely he’d moved in the middle of the semester. He’d most likely moved in sometime in the fall.

“Lived here a while, actually,” he said, “I’m just not a big coffee drinker.”

“Let me guess…you like tea better?” Phil said and smiled. Dan frowned—was this a sign of the real Phil, his Phil? How would he know that otherwise?

“How’d you know?” Dan asked, trying to be teasing.

“Would it sound like a line if I said that it feels like I’ve met you before?” Phil said, not sure how much he should pretend to be joking.

“Maybe we were friends in a different life,” Dan said. It was so utterly true, but the Phil in front of him apparently had no more than a gut feeling about it.

“Maybe,” Phil said, his smile growing by the minute, “So you’re a uni student?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, and he wasn’t sure if that was considered a lie or not. Should he feel bad about lying to Phil? He let it go. “I’m going for philosophy.”

“Very academic,” Phil complimented with mock sincerity, barely hiding his smile, “I was there for English Language and Linguistics. And now I’m in another program for media post-production.” That definitely wasn’t the name of the program Phil had been in, but Dan was past the point of laughing at the author’s ignorance of details. He just wanted to leave this stupid universe. He wanted to go back to his and Phil’s real flat. He wanted anime on the television. He wanted Phil’s real smile; not the genuine but polite one he had on now, but the smile reserved only for Dan. The smile that fans had dubbed ‘Love-eyes Lester’.

“So one useless degree wasn’t enough? You wanted two?” Dan teased him. Maybe his sense of humor would help him remember?

“Says the guy in philosophy,” Phil said and rolled his eyes, “The media degree is actually relevant. I make videos on the internet.” He sounded proud and Dan internally shook his head again. Phil hadn’t exactly bragged about his channel to his irl friends. Certainly not to strangers. Dan frowned again—he was a stranger. Before Dan could respond, Phil continued.

“Actually…you sort of look familiar. Don’t tell me you do, too?” Phil said, looking as though he was beginning to remember something.

“Well, I have for eight years,” Dan sassed. Phil was clearly so close to remembering, to waking up….

“Really?” Phil said doubtfully, “The site I use, at least, has only been around for a few years. And, no offense, you don’t look old enough to have been making videos eight years ago.”

Dan wanted to scream. Would he have to spoon-feed it to him? He prayed to every god ever created that he wouldn’t have to play out a slow-burn plot to get his friend back. He took a chance.

“Maybe it was in that other life I mentioned,” he said. He might scare Phil off. He might ruin this whole thing. He didn’t think that the author would write a story where Dan had to chase Phil—they clearly wanted to bounce the two men between different plots, and an actual slow-burn, strangers-to-stalker-to-friends would be far too slow-paced.

“What do you mean?” Phil said hesitantly. He looked uncomfortable, but not like he was about to run away.

“I mean that in another life, we’ve been best friends for eight years and we have a combined ten million subscribers on youtube,” Dan said, smiling slightly. Phil was frowning, looking confused and apprehensive but not disbelieving.

“What’s my channel name?” Phil asked without preamble.

“AmazingPhil. You chose it in part so you would be listed first in alphabetical order.”

“What’s my birthday?”

“January 30th, 1987. Your family gets frustrated that it’s so close to Christmas.” Dan prayed he wouldn’t ask any more questions. It made sense with the situation, he supposed, but going any farther would just be the author’s excuse to show off their mastery of very basic Phil facts.

“Dan…Dan Howell?” Phil asked uncertainly. He looked scared, but not scared of Dan. It was as though his entire world had just been undermined and he’d realized he wasn’t who he thought he was.

“Remember now?” Dan said, hopeful.

“I think so,” Phil said, rubbing his forehead, “Maybe not everything, but…. Are we in a coffeeshop AU?”

“Yup,” Dan said, “I was trying to figure out how to get you back. I was hoping it wasn’t a slow-burn and I’d have to live through literally months…. Jesus, I’m glad to have you back.”

“Same,” Phil said, smiling. His real smile, the one that people compared to the sun.

“It was like 2009 all over again,” Dan said, laughing uncomfortably but trying to make it a joke, “You had no idea who I was and I had to catch your attention.”

“Hey, you caught my attention easily,” Phil said and smirked, “Did you not see my phone number on your cup?”

“Did _you_ not see it? It’s an American format,” Dan said, showing him the writing.

“They couldn’t do five minutes of research to figure out the correct format?” Phil said, laughing.

“Apparently not,” Dan said, then addressed the ceiling, “Come on, just open google next time.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Phil said, elbowing him, “If they get more details correct then we’ll have more difficulty figuring out what’s real.”

“They’re bending our perception anyway,” Dan pointed out, “If they had wanted to, they could have easily glossed over the phone number. We wouldn’t have noticed it. But we noticed it and pointed it out as being the wrong format, which just means the author knew the correct format and wants credit for it.”

“My brain hurts,” Phil said.

“And my coffee’s cold. Let’s go home, yeah?”

“Where is home?” Phil said with a frown, “I sort of…woke up…in here, working. Did you actually wake up in a bed somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, “I woke up in a flat in the same building we used to live in.”

“We can go there, then.”

“And I found a credit card in my wallet,” Dan said with a smirk, “Now that we’ve woken up to the situation, the author won’t keep us here for much longer. We’ll never get a bill. Let’s order a bunch of Chinese.”

“We do that normally.”

“Yeah, but this time there aren’t any consequences. We probably won’t even feel sick.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They walked back to the flat discussing what they’d learned about this universe. Neither of them wanted to open the can of worms that was social media, but Dan did pull out his phone and read some very bogus class names to Phil.

It was only once they’d ordered a feast and eaten through half of it that Dan felt like he needed to talk. To explain himself, or something.

“It was like being a half of a person,” Dan said, apropos of nothing, “I mean, people always joke about how we’re two halves of the same whole and we always roll our eyes because we’re our own people. But I’m just so used to you being next to me. And it wasn’t just that, it was the fact that I was alone and I didn’t know where you were. Or what was happening to you.”

Phil chewed slowly, thinking over what Dan had said.

“I think you had it worse,” he agreed, “I had no idea anything was going on. It was like before…this. When we just didn’t question that our life was real. I had no reason to be worried or scared or feel like I was alone. And yeah, having your life pulled out from under you…it’s not fun, but we did it before.”

“But I was going through it at the same time then. This time you were alone.”

“I knew you wouldn’t lie to me, though. I mean, even as a barista who didn’t know you, even as that blank character…I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. When I sat down with you, I honestly did feel like I’d met you before.”

“It’s not like we’ve been best friends for eight years,” Dan said sarcastically. Phil kicked him.

The two men ate in silence for several minutes. Each was lost in their own overwrought internal monologue about the future. Whatever it was that the future would hold.

“This is a very fanfiction thing I’m about to say,” Dan warned, “And I’ll shut up about the emotions and stuff in a minute. But I honestly do feel like we can get through this as long as we’re together. We got through yesterday together. Three versions of us did, in fact. As long as it’s Dan and Phil, the author already has the happy ending they want, right? So they’ll move on, and hopefully leave us alone.”

“Did you just call us a happy ending?” Phil said, smirking, but he wasn’t disagreeing.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, you’re right. So if we don’t end up in the same place, whoever remembers has to find the other, yeah?”

“Agreed,” Dan said, nodding.

“Do you think it would work to have some sort of memory cue? Like a word or something that would help trigger our memories?”

Dan smirked, “Are you suggesting we need a safeword?”

“Dan!” Phil chastised, laughing.

They passed the rest of the evening uneventfully. The flat wasn’t well stocked, but at least had Studio Ghibli movies. They put them on the small television and sat, watching and getting lost in the world. They realized that how rested they felt had nothing to do with how much sleep they had—the author was in control of that, since they’d wake up in a different place tomorrow. Possibly with different memories and a different life. So there would be no consequences for staying up late. There would be no consequences for anything they did in this moment.

“Don’t you fucking go there,” Dan hissed at the ceiling the moment he thought that.

“What?” Phil said, confused and less awake than he was pretending to be.

“The author is writing some bullshit about no consequences,” Dan said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice, “Like they want us to do something we wouldn’t otherwise. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Ugh,” Phil said, letting his head fall against the back of the sofa again, “We were trying to disobey anyway. So it’s fitting that we will now.”

“I bet they want us to at least have an argument about who will sleep in the bed. We’ll end up both sleeping there because we care so much about the other.”

“I know we’re not supposed to do that,” Phil said, frowning, “But I’m still going to insist you’re the one who sleeps in the bed.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“They’re your sheets! It’s your bed!”

“How about neither of us sleeps there? One of us sleeps on the floor here, in the lounge, and the other sleeps on the floor in the bedroom. Neither of us are at an advantage so we can’t fight over it. And we’re not on display sleeping next to each other.”

Phil pursed his lips, “Fine. But you’re the one in the bedroom and you have to promise to get up and sleep on the bed if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I will,” Dan said, intending to do no such thing. He didn’t promise, and that didn’t escape Phil’s notice, but the latter let it go.

They got ready for bed quietly. Phil decided to forgo brushing his teeth, refusing to give the author the satisfaction of him using Dan’s toothbrush. He borrowed Dan’s pyjamas—they were close enough to the same size that it wasn’t too awkward. But the two of them changed in separate rooms, and they both wore shirts and pants. The author would get absolutely nothing.

“Goodnight,” Dan said to his friend, smiling sadly. He wished he had confirmation that his friend would remember him in the morning. He wished he was sure of anything.

“Night,” Phil said, returning the same expression. He couldn’t comfort Dan without lying to him.

The two parted ways, Dan going to the bedroom and Phil to the lounge. When Dan had his hand on the handle of the door was when Phil decided. It was practical, true, but hopefully it could make Dan smile.

“Dan,” Phil called, and the younger man paused and looked back, curious. “The safeword is pinof.”

Phil had been right. Dan gave a genuine smile and shook his head, pretending to be annoyed at Phil’s joke. The rational part of his mind liked the idea of having a memory cue and the emotional part swelled when he remembered that he wasn’t in this alone.

Both men slept well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's meta all the way down.
> 
> (The theme came out at the end, but I feel I need to say it in a clear, undeniable, pointed way. I want to remind everyone reading this that Dan and Phil are, above all else, people. They deserve privacy. That doesn't change just because they choose to share some parts of their lives with us. If they don't want to share it, we have no right to know it. Do not go digging. Do not watch things that they do not want seen.)


	6. Just stop already

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: extreme self-indulgence. You have no idea guys. I'm so sorry.

This time, Phil was the one to wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom. The ceiling was low and the walls were a light gray. He sat up and surveyed the scene. He lay under black sheets on a bed that was low to the ground. He grabbed his glasses off the bedside table so he could see more clearly. The furniture was mismatched, scuffed, and looked secondhand. Crooked posters hung on the walls and the floor was covered in clothes.

He took a moment to analyze the situation. Where was he? _Who_ was he? Where would he find Dan? He wasn’t sure. Dan read more fanfiction than he did, so he was having trouble identifying the trope.

“Phil!” A voice yelled through the closed door, “I’m going to work. Don’t be late for school! Love you!”

So he was in school. Probably a high school, if that was his mother who had just spoken. He assumed that having her leave before he saw her was a way to avoid adding another character. Phil figured that that was a good thing; he didn’t want to have to interact with someone who was pretending to be his family.

He stood up and picked his way carefully across the room, avoiding stepping on any of the clothes on the way to the closet. The moment he opened it, he realized what trope he was in.

The closet was full of black. It was like an exaggerated version of Dan’s wardrobe. Phil was sure that when he opened the chest of drawers, it would hold nothing but black skinny jeans. He would have beat-up, black Converse sitting by the front door.

He was in a punk AU fic. He couldn’t have placed it so quickly if it wasn’t for the fact that punk!Phil was also a common theme in fanart. He felt his ears—yes, he had gauges—and ran his tongue along his bottom lip—yes, he had a lip ring. There was no mirror in this room, so he’d have to wait with bated breath to find out what the author had done to his hair.

Knowing that he didn’t have much choice, Phil dressed in a generic black v-neck t-shirt and black skinny jeans. He’d have to find Dan, obviously, and find out if his friend remembered their predicament. But he was obviously meant to go to school to do that. And, as much as he wanted to disobey the author, he couldn’t think of a more efficient way to find Dan.

He cracked open his bedroom door and peeked out, not sure what to expect. It was a small hallway, with his room on the end. It looked like the door on the wall to his right was a bathroom. The door on the wall to his left seemed to be a bedroom. There was a set of stairs beyond that, leading to a lower floor.

Phil squared his shoulders and walked to the bathroom, acting as though he belonged there. It was supposed to be his house, after all. He wasn’t sure if his mother-figure, who had left, was the only one who had been in the house. If he wasn’t alone, he needed to play the part.

In the bathroom, he found that his hair had been mercifully spared; there were no colors or strange styles. He also seemed to have no tattoos, for which he was also grateful. Even if it didn’t matter and it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t feel like himself in a body with sleeves depicting dragons. The punk edits video notwithstanding.

He did, however, have black nail polish on his fingers. And there was eyeliner on the counter that he guessed he was supposed to use. But he didn’t actually know how to use it, so even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t. He swapped his glasses for contacts and left the bathroom.

The stairs were narrow and steep and Phil was struck again by just how low the ceiling was. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be an important element or if the author was just being sarcastic about his ridiculous height.

Phil found himself in a small, cute house. He’d walked into a dining area, which was between the kitchen and the lounge. There were two chairs at the small table—apparently he and his mother-figure were the only ones living here.

He felt like an absolute creep opening the pantry, but he was starving. And, he reminded himself, in this world it was his house. There was no reason to feel bad about getting some cereal. That didn’t, however, completely erase the uneasy feeling that he was encroaching on someone else’s life.

When he brought the cereal box to the counter, intending to look for a bowl, he found a note on the counter.

_Good morning Philly!_

_I had to leave early today, I hope you heard me say goodbye._

_There’s plenty of milk for your cereal._

_Don’t be late again or I’ll take your keys._

_I love you so much!_

_Mum_

Phil couldn’t help but smile. Even if it was an artificially crafted universe, it was nice to have a parent who cared.

It was also nice to get a hint of what he was supposed to do. If taking away keys was a punishment, then he clearly had a car. He smirked; or, as Dan would say, he had a chair. He was probably supposed to drive to school. He swallowed hard. He didn’t drive often and he couldn’t say it was his best skill. And this would be driving on the wrong side of the road, which he had never done. He rolled his eyes—apparently he _was_ in America. He hadn’t known for sure until the author inserted that thought into his head and confirmed his suspicions.

He ate his cereal quickly, unsure of when school started or when he had to leave to not be late, but as usual he got distracted. He’d found his phone plugged in and charging on the dining table—who leaves their phone somewhere else at night? The map said he was somewhere in the heart of America, in a place he’d never heard of. He stared at the word for several seconds and decided that he couldn’t even try to pronounce it.

Not wanting to look like an idiot, he googled the word and found pronunciation videos. He watched three and they all pronounced it very differently. He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. So that was how the day was going to start.

In another effort to not look like an idiot, he searched nearby high schools. There was only one in the area, so presumably that’s where he would be going. He also looked through the phone’s pictures and hit a jackpot when he found a screenshot of his school schedule.

Phil glanced at the ceiling with a frown. The author was giving him a _lot_ of information and going quite far to make sure he didn’t look like an idiot. Although he was grateful, he couldn’t help but worry that Dan might not be getting the same treatment. Hopefully wherever Dan was, and whatever he remembered, he wasn’t being put through hell for the sake of the author’s entertainment.

After rinsing his bowl and spoon, Phil faced the next terror of the day: driving. The car in the attached garage was definitely old and worn, but it didn’t seem about to disintegrate underneath him. He took a minute to figure out how to open the garage door, then automatically got into the car on the wrong side.

He rolled his eyes and walked to the other side, sitting behind the unfamiliarly-placed steering wheel. It was an automatic transmission, so he didn’t have to wrestle with a clutch, but he was used to a manual so it was a mixed blessing.

Phil managed to back out of the garage without incident and found a little remote on the dashboard to close the door again. He felt as though he might be getting the hang of this. The street was quiet, with no traffic, so he had no trouble getting onto the road. He’d set up his phone to give him directions to the high school.

He sputtered his way to school on the unfamiliar roads. He did have some trouble with left turns—which were the easy ones in England but involved strange games of chicken here in America. Who would stop first? Who was farther into the intersection? It was chaotic. But he didn't get into an accident or cause an accident, so he counted the drive as a success.

A parking permit hung from his rear view mirror, telling him to park in lot B, which was thankfully marked clearly. He frowned. The author was being far too nice—it sounded like Dan had been left to his own devices yesterday, but today, Phil was being handed all the answers. He didn't want to think about what that meant.

As he sat in the car, he noticed that there were other students still walking in. So it seemed he'd avoided being late. He was beginning to get out of the car when he had a sudden realization and quickly turned on the front camera of his phone.

Just as he'd feared, he didn't look any younger. He still had wrinkles around his eyes and laugh lines. He still looked 30 years old. He hoped that this would be like teen movies, where no one noticed that the protagonist was twelve years older than he should be. He'd never felt self-conscious about aging, believing that laugh lines and crow’s feet were signs of a life well lived. But now he wished he'd been vain and used all those stupid anti-wrinkle creams he'd heard of.

He shook the thought from his mind and walked into the school. He just had to act the part and no one would notice that he was twice as old as the freshmen.

He remembered that his first class was A206. What the heck did that mean? He'd entered a long hallway with a gym to one side. Asking someone would definitely bring weird looks, as he was supposed to have been attending here for years. And he was supposed to be mean, too, so he shouldn't just ask anyone. Oh, and he should probably stop smiling.

Phil frowned at that thought, then smiled even wider to spite the author. They were being strangely kind, but he still hated the situation and he still didn’t know what was happening to Dan.

He walked past the cafeteria, trying to surreptitiously look for his friend. The scene was loud and chaotic, but he couldn’t find an unusually tall brunet head. Phil was becoming increasingly worried about his friend and wished Dan could be there to guide him. The younger man was far more attuned to the situation. But that was because he’d read a worrying amount of fanfiction. Phil smiled to himself. If Dan hadn’t had the habit of indulging his morbid curiosity, they may not have become aware so soon.

He continued walking past and took the stairs just beyond the lunchroom. The room number started with a two, so he presumed it was on the second floor. He managed to find a room labeled A206, which was apparently in A-wing. It was between B-wing and C-wing. This school made no sense.

He walked into the standard-looking classroom and took a random desk against the far wall. This was a maths class, according to the schedule on his phone. He glanced again at the teacher’s name. It was three letters, none of which were vowels. How did one pronounce “Glp”?

Slowly, students began to trickle into the room. No one was glaring at him, so he seemed to have picked the correct desk. He carefully looked at each student who entered, but none of them looked remotely familiar. They also didn't look directly at him—he remembered again that he was punk!Phil. He probably had a reputation.

He spent the class doodling in the notebook he'd stuffed into his scruffy backpack. He wasn't called on and he wasn't scolded for not paying attention. Again, probably the result of his reputation.

Around twenty minutes into the class, a bell rang. Phil almost sprang up before he realized that no one else was moving. They acted like they hadn't heard it. Was this part of the story—a sound that only he could hear? He didn't think that would make any sense. He pulled out his schedule again and realized that each class had two numbers next to it—he was in his “1-2” class and the next was his “3-4” class. Each instruction period was two…periods? That made no sense. What even was this school?

Soon enough, the author stopped commenting on their own bizarre high school and Phil heard another bell, which apparently actually mattered. He rolled his eyes at the self-indulgence of the author, who apparently wanted to overshare in this chapter. He shuffled out of the classroom after checking the schedule on his phone.

The next class was a drawing class. It took him long enough to find E-wing that he walked in a few minutes late to the class. He tried to slip in unnoticed, but the teacher caught him.

“Nice of you to join us, Phil,” she said, sounding sincere behind the snark.

He timidly walked to the only open seat at a table for four in the corner. He pulled out his notebook and intended to listen to the lecture when he glanced to his left.

_Dan._

Dan sat to his left, paying rapt attention to the lecture and ignoring Phil entirely. His hair was particularly curly and he was wearing a baby blue jumper that was at least two sizes too large for him. Phil rubbed his eyes and sighed internally. This was a pastel x punk fic. Dan was the innocent pastel boy and Phil was the delinquent punk who corrupted him.

With a sinking feeling, Phil realized that Dan hadn’t shown any signs of recognition when he’d come to sit down. The teacher had drawn attention to him, said his name—and Dan didn’t respond. He didn’t know Phil. He didn’t know himself. He didn’t know that this wasn’t real.

Despite himself, Phil felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard. There had never been a time when Dan hadn’t known who he was. Dan had always tried to get Phil’s attention, not the other way around. He didn’t really know how to deal with it.

He _really_ didn’t know how to deal with it when Dan was an innocent pastel boy. If Phil came on too strong, he’d scare him away. He had no way of knowing when his younger friend would remember. Would it take a couple of minutes of conversation, like yesterday, or would it take days?

Phil didn’t end up paying attention to any of the lecture. He was hyper-attuned to every movement made by the boy next to him and planning how to win him over.

He decided that subtle was the best way to go. When the (second) bell rang, he stuffed his notebook away and was thankful that Dan had a sketchbook and pencils to pack up.

“Hey, Dan,” Phil said, nudging the boy’s leg with his foot, “Ever heard of pinof?” Dan looked at him with wide eyes, looking…scared? Phil’s heart broke. He was scary to Dan.

“N-no…” Dan said, “Why?”

Phil’s heart sunk even further. The memory cue hadn’t helped at all. He was stuck in this world where his best friend didn’t know him—where his best friend was _scared_ of him.

“Uh, when do you have lunch?” Phil said, trying to think quickly and salvage the conversation. Maybe all Dan needed was a few minutes of talking to remember…Phil had to figure out how they could arrange that.

“9-10,” Dan said hesitantly, inching away from Phil towards the door, “Why?”

“Me too,” Phil said, not remembering if it was true. It didn’t matter, anyway, because he’d be in the cafeteria regardless. Even if the author let him face the consequences, he would face just about anything to get Dan back on his side. “Maybe I’ll see you then, yeah?”

Dan gave a small forced smile and bolted. Phil sat back down and dropped his head into his hands. He hated this. He hated this entire situation, the fact that they didn’t know what was going on, they had no control, and now they weren’t even facing it together. From where he sat, it began to look hopeless. How long would the author keep them in this stupid trope? And the next one? Would it ever end? Would they ever be able to have a real life again?

He sat brooding for a minute before students from the next class began walking in. He stood up, hitched his backpack onto his shoulder, and walked out grimly. He was sure he finally looked the part of his punk persona.

Instead of walking to his next class—English, if he remembered correctly—he found himself walking into the anarchy of the cafeteria. There was an empty table at the far end of the room, near a wall of windows. He settled there, pulling out his notebook and planning to actually use the time productively.

It was currently 5-6. Or 5, or whatever. He had until 9-10 to figure out a plan. That was when—well, honestly, he didn’t know what would happen then. It seemed doubtful that Dan would just come find him. Would he have to search out his friend, possibly confronting a group of people? He didn’t want to make enemies. He just wanted Dan back.

Phil had an idea and reluctantly pulled out his phone, not even sure if it would work. He googled himself and Dan with the words “punk pastel”. Bizarrely, this seemed to be a world where a different but identical Dan and Phil existed on youtube and no one in the school noticed or acknowledged it. He wrote it off as necessary for the story and opened a couple of the linked fanfiction stories.

He scanned through them, looking for themes and patterns. There was a lot of demeaning and quite a few pet names—he couldn’t see himself calling Dan ‘princess’, no matter what he was wearing or how soft he acted. Flower crowns were ubiquitous and the authors seemed to forget that Dan was taller than Phil.

He did, however, notice that Dan was very willing in most of these stories. That is, he would respond to Phil if approached and do things like approach Phil at lunch when prompted. He hoped he had his answer.

Phil spent the next few periods scribbling in his notebook, trying to work out a plan.

He wrote out a list of emotionally-charged, memory-laden words and phrases that might jog Dan’s memory. But he wasn’t sure if that would work; ‘pinof’ was one of the most symbolic words in their shared history, and if that hadn’t worked, would ‘tatinof’ or ‘Dil Howlter’ really work? Sentences like “this is the most fun I’ve ever had” were another possibility, and might be easier to work naturally into the conversation.

He changed gears and began to work out what the author wanted. The typical plot of a fanfiction like this would be a slow burn, of Dan realizing that Phil was actually a big teddy bear and of Phil recognizing his protective instinct over Dan. They would take a few chapters to break down each other's walls or explore each other's baggage. Was that what the author wanted? Several weeks of slowly building interactions? That wasn't an option. Phil wanted his friend back as quickly as possible, not in several weeks.

What was the opposite of that? A sudden burst of interaction, a whirlwind romance? There was no guarantee that that would work – if the author was controlling Dan's sentience, then they could withhold his memory until Phil cooperated.

In the end, he chose a middle ground. He would pretend to follow the plot, but do everything in his power to wake Dan up. It had worked on Phil yesterday, so it was definitely possible.

Before he knew it, it was 9-10. Dan would be appearing for lunch. For all his planning, Phil couldn't predict how Dan would act and had to play it by ear.

Just like in all the stories that described a ‘strange magnetism’, Phil looked up to see a timid-looking Dan walking towards him. The younger boy kept his hands drawn up into the sleeves of his jumper and his eyes on the ground. Phil wasn't sure how he could see where he was going.

Dan sat without a word, sliding into a seat across from Phil without making eye contact. He stared resolutely down at his hands and picked at his nails. A silence stretched on. Phil's heart broke to see his friend so timid and unsure. Even in 2009 he'd been able to look people in the eye.

“Hey,” Phil said, trying to put him at ease, “what's up?”

“Hi,” Dan mumbled. He didn't elaborate, nor did he look up at all.

“So, um, Dan…” Phil said, cringing at his own awkwardness. This couldn't be going any worse. “What's your favorite onomatopoeia?” Dan's forehead creased, but he finally looked up at Phil.

“Are you messing with me?” He asked in a quiet but surprisingly hard voice.

“No,” Phil said, surprised by his sudden anger, “It was supposed to be an ice breaker…”

Dan sighed and looked back down at his hands. “What do you want with me?” He asked, again in his hard, almost strained voice. What must he have gone through, Phil thought, how must people treat him for him to ask the question like that?

“I just want to get to know you,” Phil said earnestly, “You seem interesting. I think we could be friends.”

“Friends,” Dan echoed flatly.

“Yeah, maybe we could hang out. Or something. Maybe it will be the most fun I've ever had.”

“You're messing with me,” Dan declared, making to stand up from the table.

Phil reflexively grabbed his wrist to keep him from leaving. He was used to his Dan, to having no physical boundaries. Dan tensed for a long moment and sat back down limply. Phil's hand shot back to his side and his mind raced he tried to figure out how to undo the damage he'd just done. The resident scary punk had just physically prevented the pastel boy from leaving. This was very, very bad.

“Sorry, I—” Phil said, trying to find a way to explain himself.

Dan mumbled something, too low for Phil to hear. The younger boy was folded in on himself, looking terrified but resigned. Phil wondered just how many times this version of Dan would break his heart. It certainly happened again when he saw his friend braced for god knows what type of attack.

“What was that?” Phil said, trying to keep his voice soft.

“Get to the punchline already,” Dan repeated, still barely audible.

“What are you talking about?” Phil asked. He knew what Dan meant, but there was nothing else he could say.

“Just call me a gaylord or punch me or whatever you're going to do,” Dan said. Phil knew he was speaking from experience. He had the urge to gather Dan into a hug and make him forget everything, but Phil knew that that wasn't an option right now. He left a long silence and deliberately looked at his hands, hoping it would help convey his sincerity.

“I'm serious. I'd love to be your friend.”

“Then why did you say such weird things?”

“Um, what?” Phil asked, stalling for time. He hadn't thought about the need to justify his attempts to jog Dan's memory, to explain that those words and phrases were not nearly as strange as they sounded.

“Whatever pinof is? My favorite onomatopoeia? The most fun you've ever had?”

“I'm sorry, I'm just not good at talking to people,” Phil said honestly. That wasn't what was going on here, but at least the statement wasn't a lie.

“Maybe you'd be better if you talked instead of yelling and insulting,” Dan said, clearly not intending for Phil to hear.

“What?” Phil said, out of surprise and a little bit of indignation. He would never! Except, he reminded himself, this wasn't him. This was punk!Phil, who had an established personality before he had been dumped into the role. Clearly his alter ego was not the kindest person.

“N-nothing,” Dan stuttered, looking truly terrified. He was backing up subtly, as though trying to get out of arm’s reach. Phil's eyes widened—was Dan afraid that Phil would physically hurt him?

“It's okay,” Phil said, smiling slightly and using a low voice. He sounded like he was soothing a spooked animal, “I haven't exactly been nice. But people can change, yeah?” Dan looked up but didn't meet his eye and didn't make any noise of agreement. “What will it take for you to believe that I'm serious and I want to be your friend?”

“Time,” Dan said after a moment, with an unhappy smile, “Time for the joke to get stale and you to move on to someone else. After that I'd believe you.”

“As much time as there is,” Phil promised confidently. Dan looked at him skeptically, but he met Phil's eyes, which the latter took as a good sign.

The bell rang and Dan got up from the table without a word, walking away without looking back.

Once he was out of sight, Phil let his façade crumble. He dropped his head into his hands. He would do anything to get Dan back. He'd go through any humiliating dare or answer any personal question. But no, that wasn't good enough.

Leave it to the author to make Dan ask for time, the most painful thing for Phil to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the pastelxpunk trope is going to be two or three chapters. I realized that if I made it one chapter it would top 10k words and I would rather publish it in smaller chunks so I can feel like I'm accomplishing something by posting a chapter.
> 
> Dan doesn't have a chair. (https://youtu.be/LEXAVfDBeBI)
> 
> [insert usual comment about the fact that I have no clue what I just wrote]


	7. Chapter 7

Phil didn’t bother going to the rest of his classes. He walked straight out of the school; when the security guard had tried to ask him what he was doing, Phil shot him a withering look that had the man stepping back meekly.

He sat in his car for a long time, thinking about where he could go from here. What was the fastest way to get his friend back?

Phil thought about giving up. He considered that he could play along, act like a delinquent, and spend weeks earning Dan’s trust. That was what the author wanted. When they finally got together in the end, the author would get the ending they wanted and Dan would regain his awareness. It was a sure-fire way; the author would certainly give Phil what he wanted if he gave them what they wanted.

But that would take weeks. Weeks of Phil being alone in a world where he knew no one, in which he had no idea how to act. Weeks of Phil being…alone. No matter how many people surrounded him, if Phil didn’t have Dan, he was alone.

He knew how pathetic it sounded. But he hadn’t gone weeks without Dan’s attention in eight years. When was the last time he’d gone even twenty-four hours without talking to him? And this wasn’t real life, where he would find a way to be strong if he really had to; this was all a sham. He had Dan so close to him but so far away—he smiled slightly at how cliché that sounded.

Maybe the author would take pity on him. Maybe they would accelerate the timeline and make Dan a little bit more trusting. But they would probably only do that if Phil cooperated.

He dropped his head into his hands at the inserted thought. That confirmed it, he supposed. The only way to get around this situation was to go through it. He reminded himself that he did have some agency, so if the author didn’t keep their word, he could make a scene and tear this world apart. He knew that if worst came to worst, he could find some leverage. He could find a way to force the author’s hand. He just hoped that it didn’t have to come to that. He hoped with all his might that the author would give him back his Dan.

As his internal monologue ended, Phil sighed and started the car. He drove to ‘his’ house, meeting much less traffic now that it was midday. There was no car in the driveway and he assumed that his mother figure wouldn’t be returning home until much later. In all likelihood, she’d return after he went to sleep and leave before he got up. The author probably wouldn’t want to deal with adding another character and creating a family dynamic.

When he got out, he slammed the car door behind him. He stomped up to his room and closed the door. He was being uncharacteristically loud—he didn’t normally translate his anger into actions against objects. But he wasn’t normally in a hopeless situation.

Phil flopped face-down onto his bed and stayed there. He hated everything about this. Not only did he not have Dan to talk to, he also didn’t have anyone else. There was no PJ. There were none of his non-youtuber friends that the author didn’t know. He was alone. Although Phil didn’t consider himself a particularly outgoing or social person, he kept in touch with a lot of people. He liked talking to people. He liked _people._ And now he had no one.

It took several minutes for Phil to build up the motivation to move. With great effort, he rolled onto his back so he could breathe more easily. He had rarely felt so lethargic and…depressed. It was out of character for him. Was the author writing him into this, or was this how he reacted to a situation?

He tried to think back to university. How had he responded when…when his friend had passed away? After a moment, he realized that he could remember nearly nothing about the few months following. It was possible that the author was writing him that way because they didn’t know what had happened or how he had reacted. But it felt different. It felt…more honest. He’d just blocked out the memories that he didn’t want to have.

Is that what he was doing now? Obviously, this wasn’t real, and he wouldn’t have any time to repress it. But…when they moved on to the next trope, when they merged back into real life, would this trope be blurry? Would he not remember the details?

He opened his eyes and stared up at the textured ceiling. He traced the lines with his eyes as his mind traced similarly branching trains of thought. It was time to push aside his emotions, his despair, in favor of practicalities.

The ultimate goal was to make Dan remember Phil. But that was apparently more difficult than the reverse had been yesterday. How long would it take? How far would he have to delve into this situation? How convincingly did he need to play his role?

Phil decided that it was best, for practicality, to assume it would take the full length of a standard pastelxpunk story. That was probably around two months, he guessed. He cringed at the thought of spending so much time alone in this unfamiliar world. But he kept on with the line of thought.

His best chance of getting close to Dan was to simply be likeable. That would require him to disobey his persona, but he really didn’t care about that. It might have consequences socially, however. Did he have fellow punk friends who would feel betrayed? That might cause trouble.

He would also need to be around Dan to get to know him. That meant going to school—and not being suspended or in detention. Which, unfortunately, meant doing all his schoolwork. He rolled his eyes. He had to do trigonometry homework. He had a degree in English language and linguistics and he’d probably have to analyze Macbeth.

Phil knew he’d have to think on his feet for much of this. Once he had analyzed the situation, though, and once he’d thought about the variables and outcomes…he could probably do that. He’d be able to do this.

He felt a little bit more in control of the situation and he was still repressing his emotions. So he picked up his book bag and began to leaf through the papers. It would help to have at least some background knowledge on his classes.

It seemed he had only two binders, each holding three classes. Honors English, trigonometry, drawing II, US history, chemistry, and…seriously? Seriously.

He was enrolled in Parenting and Child Development.

Phil knew that a subset of his viewers were obsessed with him being a literal father. They wrote fanfiction and drew fanart of him and Dan adopting a baby. He’d used the word “when” in relation to having kids a few times in liveshows; the fans had picked up on that and run with it.

Phil glanced through the syllabus for the class. It was one of the classes where you actually have to take care of an electronic baby for a weekend. He almost facepalmed. The author was trying to mix tropes here. Would punk!Phil really sign up for a parenting class and care for a fake baby? He was really hoping that that weekend wouldn’t fall within the scope of the story. On top of everything else, the last thing he needed was a robot baby crying for food. He just hoped the author would have mercy on him in that regard.

He moved through the next classes. He assumed he only had the drawing class with Dan, but he realized that he'd not attended most of his classes. He'd have to be prepared in case Dan was in one of Phil's other classes. He'd work doubly hard in drawing and any other shared classes; anything he could do to gain Dan's trust.

He realized that he didn't know where any of his supplies were. He was supposed to have a sketchbook and pencils for drawing and goggles and an apron for chemistry. Where had they gone, or had he never had them? This punk!Phil persona was really putting him at a disadvantage when all he needed was to do well in his classes.

By the look of the syllabi, these classes were all doable. It had been years since Phil was a student—and even longer since he’d taken maths courses—but he’d been good at it. These looked like standard courses, nothing too advanced. He was sure he’d taken their equivalents when he was in school. Except the US history, of course. He assumed that that was just the author’s joke about him being British in an American high school.

The next task was to go about finding all his supplies. His room was a disaster—much messier than in reality. It looked like punk!Phil had never done laundry and instead just kept buying more clothes to throw on the floor. He hoped that this wasn’t how his fans thought he lived.

Underneath a pile of skinny jeans, near the bedside table, he found a clear plastic bag of…something. He opened it to find a mashed-up plastic apron and a pair of weird plastic goggles. This would be for chemistry, then. He tossed the bundle into his backpack. Next came drawing. He picked his way to the other corner of his room and began to sift through papers on his desk.

Phil looked down in confusion. Had he had a desk before that moment? He didn’t remember seeing one this morning when he surveyed the room. The author had likely forgotten to mention it and was now retconning it in by necessity.

Whatever the origin of the desk, it too was incredibly messy. It looked like punk!Phil might do creative writing. He wasn’t sure if it was bad poetry or stilted prose and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. At least not right now. Underneath papers and books, he found a thick sketchbook that was not unused. Apparently punk!Phil had actually participated in the drawing class at some point. In a drawer he found a pencil case, with graphite pencils, charcoal, and colored pencils. He packed those and the sketchbook away in his book bag and lay down on his bed again.

What was he supposed to do now? His phone was telling him it was six in the evening—he had taken a lot of time to do his brooding. Would his mother figure be coming home? Would it be out of character if Phil made dinner for her? How was he supposed to pass the time between now and the next day?

He crept down the stairs to the kitchen, but he was still home alone. He guessed that even if making dinner would be uncharacteristic, it would be appreciated. Or at least not punished. So he checked the pantry and the refrigerator and began gathering ingredients for a stir fry. Easy and delicious.

Time passed quickly as he became absorbed in cooking, but his mother figure still didn’t return home. He served himself anyway, hoping it wasn’t rude to eat before she arrived.

He found himself scrolling through his phone, trying to find information on himself or Dan or the situation they were in.

Phil was on twitter, but had apparently never tweeted anything. He was following various people, some of whom looked like classmates. He searched _Dan Howell_ and skipped the first result. He wasn’t sure if he could take the strange disorientation of looking at _his_ Dan’s twitter while another Dan was the one in Phil’s life.

He did find Dan’s twitter. He was wearing an honest-to-god flower crown in the icon. Surprisingly, this Dan’s twitter didn’t seem all that different from the original’s. He was sarcastic, he typed in all lowercase letters, and he posted more selfies than the average user. They were all stereotypically ‘soft’; it didn’t look like he wore anything but oversized shirts in pastel colors.

If this Dan’s twitter was very similar to his Dan’s, then maybe that was an indication that below the pastel, this Dan was himself. If that was true, and Phil could break down the fear the younger boy felt towards him…maybe they’d be out of this sooner than he’d thought.

The next stop was tumblr. That would probably give an even better indication of Dan’s personality. He typed in the site name eagerly, and the autocomplete showed that he’d been there before, he had a blog. But when his dashboard loaded, Phil let out a noise of surprise and immediately closed the tab.

He took a deep breath; it might have been a fluke. But no, when he began scrolling through his dash, it was _all_ porn. He was genuinely confused. He wasn’t as innocent as some of his fans seemed to think, he was a 30 year old man who had seen porn before. But even so, why was his _entire_ tumblr dashboard filled with nothing but porn? Was the author playing a joke on him? He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

Phil typed Dan’s personal email address into the search bar, hoping his blog would pop up. He’d have trouble finding it otherwise. But no, right on cue, a pastel-colored blog with the name Dan in the bio was at the top of the search results.

He scrolled through, finding much of the same as on real Dan’s tumblr. There was definitely more content, overall, and some of it was similar to things that Dan had laughed about and shown Phil but couldn’t reblog. They knew better than to post or reblog without thinking; certain things that were, in reality, completely innocuous could be taken the wrong way. But here, without millions of followers, Dan was free to make his blog as strange and borderline offensive as he wanted.

Phil didn’t learn anything that he hadn’t already assumed after the twitter account. This Dan was very similar to his Dan in terms of personality.

He looked at the clock and realized that it was ten at night. He’d lost track of time again. He put the rest of the stir fry in a plastic container, loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter. He smiled to himself when he realized that he was treating this kitchen with more respect than he treated his own.

When the kitchen was sorted, he went to the bathroom to exchange his contacts for glasses. He also experimentally poked at his ear lobes. The plugs might be uncomfortable while he slept, even though he’d woken up in them. And if Dan’s ears hadn’t closed after years, then his wouldn’t close overnight. The same was probably true for his lip ring. He took his piercings out and couldn’t help but feel a little more like himself.

Phil had a hunch and dug through his desk again when he returned to his room. Sure enough, there was a laptop under more of the papers. He grabbed it and sat at the head of his bed against the wall. He could get a better look at Dan’s tumblr on a desktop. He also wanted to log into facebook and see what information he could get, who he was friends with, and if he had any actual friends.

It seemed that the author was diving headfirst into the cliché when the checked his “close friends” tab on facebook. PJ was there, looking more punk that Phil. For some reason, PJ was always the punk sidekick. The pastel boy was always a loner, usually bullied. So Phil would probably get a text from PJ soon asking him where he’d been today and why he’d been seen with Dan, who would be described with a homophobic slur.

He decided to call it a night at eleven-thirty. He’d normally never be going to sleep this early, but he normally didn’t have to be awake for high school in the morning. He lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. The emotions he’d kept at bay—in favor of pragmatism—were flooding back. For the first time in a long time, he still had tears on his cheeks when he fell asleep.

-

The next morning came like a nightmare. Phil had no moment of blissful amnesia; he remembered everything before he opened his eyes. He tried to hope that he was wrong—that the trope had been one day long, like the others. But he knew that this wasn’t his mattress or his pillow. He was still in this horrible, unfamiliar world.

Despair was flooding back to him, but it was only there for a moment before he was distracted.

“Phil!” A voice from the hallway called, “Come on down, if you’re quick we can have breakfast.”

So the author was going to make him face his mother. Or, rather, punk!Phil’s mother. There was really no use fighting it. If the author wanted it to happen, it would. If he disobeyed, who knew what the consequences would be? He’d probably have to wait longer to get Dan back. It would be better for everyone if he just played along.

He dressed quickly, remembered his plugs and the lip ring, and slung his now-heavier backpack over his shoulder. He hesitated at the top of the staircase. He didn’t know what to expect. His real mother had been in his videos—would this woman look like her? Would she attempt to act like her? He took a deep breath.

It turned out that the author spared his real mother and created a fictional character as his mother figure. She sat at the small table, blonde hair tied up into a bun. A badge was clipped on to her polo shirt, loudly declaring that her name was Linda. She looked up when he walked in and beamed.

“Come on, sit down,” she said, pushing the other chair out with her foot, “Not often you get to have breakfast with your mum.” Phil nodded and sat, but he was busy thinking about what she’d just said. She had a British accent. He did, too, but he obviously hadn’t noticed it. He wondered what the explanation was. Maybe they’d moved here from England.

When Phil sat, his mother got up and busied herself at the counter. Not knowing what she was doing, he sat and looked at his phone, waiting for her to return. She did, carrying a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.

“Mum,” he said, “You didn’t have to.” But he was honestly touched. This entire situation wasn’t real, this wasn’t his mother—or anyone who existed. But she was being kind to him. Somehow it made things a little better, to know that someone in this unfamiliar world cared about him.

“No, but I wanted to,” she said, smiling again. She set down the bowl and continued to eat her own cereal. “Anything special at school today?” Phil’s mind raced. Was he supposed to make something up?

“Not really,” he said after a moment. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the pause. “Anything special going on at work?”

She looked a little taken aback. Maybe punk!Phil didn’t ask questions in return. “Well, Ron is out. No one knows how long. So I’ve been taking up the slack. I get to see you less, but someone has to do it.” So this mother was as selfless as his real mother.

Phil looked at his phone, but kept throwing glances at his mum’s badge. He was hoping he’d be able to see the logo or the company name. He was curious what she did that had such long hours. He could make out…four Ps? PPPP must have been an acronym.

“Best be going, if you don’t want to be late,” his mother said, nodding at the door.

Phil nodded, tidied up his dishes, and grabbed his keys. As an afterthought, he turned around. His mother sat at the small table, reading the newspaper. “Love you,” he said casually. She looked up in shock.

“Love you, too,” she said, uncertainly. Her reaction was unusual. Did punk!Phil really never tell his mum that he loved her?

The drive to school was easier than the day before, as was the walk to class. He sat in the half-empty maths class, waiting for school to start, and played with his phone. It turned out that PPPP was a nuclear power plant in the area. Phil frowned a little. He wasn’t scared of nuclear power, but it was a little unnerving to have a reactor so close to several cities.

It was also a rather unusual profession. Secretary, nurse, teacher—those were the positions that undeveloped characters in stories held. Not workers in nuclear power plants. He hoped that it was just a random choice and not something that would become a plot device. He couldn’t see a nuclear power plant being used for a positive turn of events.

Phil put his phone away, pulled out his notebook, and actually listened during the trigonometry lecture. He smiled to himself as he remembered Dan’s claim to have the power of triangles. The class seemed fairly easy, actually; definitely possible. He took notes anyway and wrote down the homework problems. He wasn’t going to let laziness or apathy prevent him from getting Dan back.

He held his breath as the clock ticked towards the end of class. He’d be going to drawing next. He’d see Dan. He’d face the lack of recognition in Dan’s face. But he felt that yesterday, for all his mistakes, he’d made forward progress. Dan might suspect he was being genuine.

Phil made his way with trepidation to E-wing. He wasn’t late this time. In fact, he walked in just after Dan. The younger had come from the opposite direction and had clearly seen Phil, but didn’t make eye contact. Phil thought he saw a blush on Dan’s cheeks.

They sat next to each other at the table. Phil wondered whether the seats had been assigned or chosen. Had punk!Phil sat here because it was the only seat available? Had he been interested in Dan even before real Phil took over? Or had the teacher simply chosen the seats at random?

“Hey,” Phil said, trying to strike a balance between friendly and not appearing fake, “What’s up?” Dan looked at him quizzically and continued taking the supplies out of his baby blue backpack.

“Flowers,” Dan mumbled, nodding towards the board, where a diagram was being projected of the components of a flower. Apparently that was the current subject of their drawings.

“Right up your alley, then?” Phil said cheerfully, “Do you like this class?”

Dan frowned at him and pulled his hands into the sleeves of his jumper. “I guess,” he said quietly, “I like drawing.”

Phil wished he could remember what year Dan was supposed to be. Was he about to graduate? Was he a freshman? It was impossible to tell; he looked like a modified 2009!Dan, but that didn’t mean he was 18. What age he was would impact the appropriateness of question Phil was about to ask, but he decided to take a chance.

Phil scowled up at the ceiling. The author was intentionally making the reader believe that he was about to ask something risqué or sexual.

“What’re your plans after high school?” Dan didn’t look shocked or annoyed or pressured, so Phil assumed he’d guessed correctly. The question was normal for those about to graduate and intensely stressful for freshman who had no idea.

“I’m going to college for video production and multimedia,” Dan said, even more quietly than his previous statements. Phil knew what the lowered voice meant; when he had told people he was going for that same degree, he had gotten a lot of disbelief. And condescension and even insults.

“Oh wow, that’s really cool,” Phil said, hoping Dan could sense his sincerity.

The teacher began class then. Phil focused on the lecture and then on his own sketch, actually putting in effort. But he also paid attention to Dan, as subtly as he could. The younger man (boy?) wasn’t keeping his head perpetually turned away from Phil like he had been yesterday. And his drawing—were those orchids?—was very good. Phil knew that Dan could draw pretty well if he tried, but he wondered if his Dan had ever tried drawing something like this.

The period passed quickly. Phil didn’t want the bell to ring. He knew it wasn’t the case, but having Dan working quietly next to him, in what could have been comfortable silence—he could almost pretend they were back at home. Sitting side by side on the couch, working on separate scripts and not needing to talk. Just being together.

But the moment passed. The bell did ring and the students stuffed away their supplies and shuffled out of the room. Phil did the same. Dan was quicker, but before he walked away from the table, he happened to meet Phil’s gaze. He smiled, very slightly.

Phil walked on air to his English class. Dan was beginning to trust him. He was on his way to having his best friend back.

The next two classes were laughable, albeit for different reasons. Even though his degree was technically in linguistics, and not literature, Phil was very well read and this analysis of Hamlet was nothing new to him. He reminded himself that it could be a lot worse; they could be covering Romeo and Juliet.

The class after that was painful for him. He had a general idea of world history, as much as the average person did. But he knew almost nothing about American history in particular. They were now covering the Civil War. Phil knew it was about slavery, but beyond that, he was shamefully ignorant. Thankfully, the teacher was boring and did nothing but lecture, so there was no chance for him to embarrass himself.

Next up, lunch. He didn't know what to expect. Maybe PJ would find him today, or maybe Dan would come back, or maybe he'd be sitting alone the entire time. He wasn't sure he'd hate the last option. He had no idea how PJ would act. And being around Dan required so much thought and calculation that it was tiring. Still, he couldn't bring himself to dislike the idea of seeing his best friend.

He sat himself back down at the same table as yesterday. This time, however, he had more to do than just plan around Dan. He actually had work that he had to accomplish. He groaned internally; he'd forgotten how much homework sucked.

It was a few minutes into the period when Phil heard a small noise, almost like a hiccup. He looked up to see Dan standing awkwardly in front of the table, as though asking permission to sit down. Phil couldn't help himself; he beamed.

"May I sit with you?" Dan asked meekly. Phil nodded and gestured at the chair. Dan sat, but didn't do much besides that. He stared down at his fingers and didn't speak. Phil was trying to figure out how to break the silence.

"What made you want to go into video production?" Phil asked, hoping that it wouldn't be too personal. He didn't want to freak Dan out, but he also didn't want to waste time on superficial niceties. He wanted his friend back and getting to know him again was probably the fastest way.

"Um," Dan said, looking up at Phil in surprise. He did look back down at his hands, but he paused a moment and held eye contact. Phil counted this as a victory. "I guess I like telling stories." Phil couldn't help but be impressed with the author; they'd distilled Dan's youtube career accurately. It wasn't just about existential despair or personal failings--it was all stories.

"That's a good reason," Phil said, trying to look thoughtful. He didn't know where to go next, but Dan took on the burden for him.

"What are you going to do?" Dan said, "After graduation, I mean." He was still talking softly, but closer to a normal volume, and he had looked directly at Phil several times. He was growing more comfortable. Phil wanted to sing; this was happening quickly. Maybe he wouldn't have to suffer through weeks of this strange world. Maybe the author would have mercy and allow Dan to wake up soon.

"I don't know," Phil said, realizing that he had no idea of the career ambitions of punk!Phil. Maybe he wanted to be a banker; maybe he wanted to be a professional arsonist. "I'm just kind of figuring it out as I go along." That was true in his real life, too, though. After eleven years of youtube, he still had no idea what he was going to do next.

"Aren't we all, though?" Dan said, with a somewhat unhappy but genuine-looking smile.

"I guess so," Phil agreed, "I mean I'm--" Wait, crap. Stop, reverse. He had been about to say 'I'm thirty and I still don't know what's going on'--but he wasn't thirty here. He was probably eighteen or nineteen. It would be beyond weird if he suddenly talked about being thirty years old while sitting in a high school cafeteria.

"You're what?" Dan said after a moment of silence.

"Nothing," Phil said, unable to think of a way to redirect his statement.

"Okay," Dan mumbled, looking down again. It was like the brightness had been turned down--he became quiet and withdrawn again, looking at his hands. What on earth had Phil done? He'd said a single word. How had that caused such a strong reaction?

"Hey, you okay?" Phil said. He regretted the words the moment they came out--this was completely unlike his persona. Would the author punish him for disobeying? Or would they reward him, because the story required him breaking out of his cold exterior?

"Yeah," Dan said. He took a few more moments, but he looked back up at Phil. With less animation to his face, sure, but apparently with no lasting damage to the relationship.

"Um," Phil said, unsure how to salvage the conversation. What if he said something else wrong? He wasn't sure where to go. How could he get to know his best friend without being weird? Without letting on that he already knew everything there was to know about the boy in front of him? "What do you like to do in your free time?"

"You sound like we're speed dating," Dan said with a wry smile. Phil blushed hard. He hadn't meant it like that, but he had phrased it quite formally, hadn't he? Trust him to make things awkward at the worst moment.

"I didn't--" Phil stuttered, but Dan laughed.

"I know, I'm teasing you," Dan said with a smile. A genuine smile. It still wasn't the real Dan's smile. But it was something. Phil wanted his Dan's smile again. The one that was reserved only for him, the one that lit up Dan's entire face. The one that fans had dubbed "Heart-Eyes Howell". He didn't care what they thought about the look or what they thought it implied. He lived for that smile.

Dan continued, jolting Phil out of his inner monologue, "I do a lot of video editing. I mean, makes sense for what I'm doing. But I guess I also do some drawing? I don't know, I'm not very interesting."

"You certainly sound interesting," Phil said sincerely, "What are your videos about?"

Dan blushed and looked away--but this time he didn't look scared. He raised his hand to his mouth in what looked like a nervous habit. "I mostly vlog, I guess," he said into his sleeve. "Like I said, I like telling stories."

"That sounds fun," Phil said, trying not to laugh. Dan would most definitely take it the wrong way if he laughed, but it was a strange and ironic situation. Phil, who had been making videos for eleven years, was telling Dan that vlogging sounded fun. Well, he wasn't lying.

"What do you do?" Dan asked.

"I write some," Phil said hesitantly, hoping Dan wouldn't ask for more details. He had no idea what he wrote. He had no idea what he did for fun; he only knew about the writing because he'd had to dig through his own stories.

"What do you write?" Damn that inquisitive nature.

"Stories," Phil said, hoping he was correct, "Present-day settings, just sort of what happens to day-to-day people." I mean, that's kinda what his videos were about. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that that's what his writing would be about.

"Huh," Dan said, looking genuinely thoughtful, "Why's that?" No, seriously, damn his inquisitive nature.

"I guess," Phil said, stalling, "I guess everyone has a story, you know? And they're all worth telling. So I tell some of them."

"Hm," Dan said, his forehead creased as he looked down and played with a thread from his sleeve. The bell rang, making Phil jump. He'd had no sense of time, lost in the conversation. "See you in parenting," Dan said, smiling at Phil before he walked away.

Phil rolled his eyes once he was sure Dan wasn't going to look back. The author not only put him in a parenting class, they'd put the two of them together in that class. That was the most contrived thing that had ever happened.

He sat through chemistry, glad that they didn't have a lab day or anything. He tried to take notes, but he was distracted by the memory of Dan's smile. He was on his way to getting his best friend back. He could do this.

Even though he'd been friends with Dan for eight years, this was an entirely new situation. So he didn't feel awkward about the fact that Dan's smile made his heart flutter. It was like he was twenty-two again, talking to Dan on Skype for the first time. And seeing his smile for the first time. And then seeing his smile in person for the first time, on that train platform.

He knew he was being sappy, but he frankly didn't care. He was sentimental. It was better that being callous.

When the bell rang, Phil looked down to see that his notes were scribbled messily and consisted mostly of single words that related to the lecture but not to each other. He couldn't bring himself to care. He'd promised himself he would try to do well, but he was reasonably sure now that it would take less time to get Dan back than he'd initially thought. So he could afford to let his notetaking slip a little.

He found his way to the room for the parenting class. He didn't know where to sit, but Dan was already at a table against the wall. He decided to take his chances and sit there. Dan glanced at him as he sat down and tried to hide his smile behind his sweater-covered hand.

"Hey," Phil said, smiling. Dan smiled back but nodded towards the front of the class, where the teacher was about to start the lecture.

Phil paid attention to the worksheet that was handed out, but he spared some time to look around the room. He was guessing that he and Dan were not the...target demographic for this class. He saw three girls who were visibly pregnant. In fact, he and Dan were the only two boys in the class. He tried not to think about that and went back to looking at the diagram of infant reflexes.

The bell rang and Phil sighed in relief. It was the end of his day. Dan probably had one more class, but Phil's last class slot was empty and he assumed he was allowed to leave early. Before he could pack up and walk out, however, his free will was suddenly overridden.

"Hey, um, can I maybe have your number?" Phil said, "I'm not sure I understand all these reflexes."

"Uh, sure," Dan said, a little bewildered but smiling. He clearly saw through Phil's excuse, but was apparently happy to give his number anyway. He entered it into Phil's phone, who texted him. They had each other's numbers now. Just like they had for the last eight years, Phil reminded himself, there was nothing about this exchange that should make his heart race. He focused instead on wiggling his fingers. It seemed that he had control of his thoughts, but his body wasn’t responding.

When his fingers started responding and he could tap them on his leg, he figured he’d gotten his free will back. His heart was still racing. He couldn't tell if that was natural or he was being written that way. Well, he reasoned, regardless he was being written that way. But he couldn't tell if it was entirely a product of the author's manipulation.

He smiled at Dan and walked out, backpack over his shoulder. He walked past the guard with a spring in his step. He looked at Phil sideways; just yesterday he'd stormed out and all but threated the guard.

Phil got to his car and drove home happily. He had to convince himself not to text Dan immediately. Even though the younger man seemed to be warming up to him quickly, he still didn't want to scare him off. He sensed that one wrong move would send them back to square one. So he would wait a few hours before texting. And maybe friending him on facebook. Phil shook his head; no, he couldn't come on too strong.

He walked inside and slung his backpack on his chair, ready to grab a glass of Ribena. He looked in the fridge and found none. And then remembered that Ribena didn't exist in America. But they had a coffeemaker, which was second best.

He sat down with his binders, looking through his homework. There wasn't actually much to do. Mainly the trigonometry problems, which he had a feeling would be harder than he remembered. It hadn't seemed too difficult in class, but now his mind went blank. He assumed that it was the product of the author's interference, and that it would become a plot point momentarily. 

He tried to settle down with the coffee and bury himself in the math, but he kept checking his phone every few minutes. He knew it was unlikely that Dan would text him first, but he kept feeling phantom vibrations. He so badly wanted to text Dan...

And then he came up with the perfect excuse.

_Hey, have you taken trigonometry?_

It was an honest question--he really was having trouble with the proofs. But it opened the door to other conversation, too. He turned his phone face down and set it on the other side of the table, hoping to take away the temptation to keep checking it.

About two proofs later, he felt a real vibration. This one actually shook the table, so it wasn't in his head. He checked his phone and sure enough, Dan had texted him back. His heart soared as he opened the text.

_yeah, last year. do you need help?_

He did, actually, need help. But how could he suggest something without coming off like he was hitting on him? He was honestly just interested in being his friend. Okay, well, he was interested in becoming Dan's friend for the purpose of waking him up to the fact that they had been friends for eight years...but that was just details.

Should he suggest they meet somewhere? Obviously not one of their houses, that was way too fast.

_Yeah. Kinda. A lot. I don’t have the power of triangles._

There, that put the ball in Dan’s court. He could decide what to suggest, if anything. And a subtle reference to the real Dan could never hurt. His phone vibrated after only few moments.

_luckily i do. do you need help soon? i’m free tonight_

Phil’s heart raced. He was being handed a lottery ticket. It was an opportunity; everything could go perfectly. He could even get Dan back entirely. But it could also mean absolutely nothing. There was no guarantee that Dan would even trust him more after tonight.

_Yeah, kinda. I’m free too. Where and what time?_

Again, Phil left the ball in Dan’s court. The younger man could decide how quickly to take this. Dan might suggest a library, where they couldn’t even talk. Or Starbucks. His phone vibrated almost immediately.

_my place? at six? we could order pizza_

So the author was rushing things along. Phil wondered where it would go from here. There were too many possibilities to consider. But there was no way to get Dan back besides befriending him. Phil was being handed the perfect opportunity to do so.

_Sounds good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I DID IT. I finished Camp NaNo! 25k words in July. The last 6k of which were this bizarre and overly long chapter. I have no idea what I'm doing.
> 
> Unfortunately, because it was NaNo and I wrote the last 5k in a single day...well, I don't have a beta. I've fixed like eight things so far and that's only because I reread it once I posted it. Please, Grammar Police, have mercy on my soul.
> 
> Side note: I took a Parenting and Child Development class in high school and had the fake baby for a weekend and it hardcore sucked. There was a single guy in the class who, shortly after high school, went to jail for various breaking-and-entering and theft. So take that as you will.


	8. Fuck you let us go

Phil was having major déjà vu. He was flashing back to eight years ago on a train station platform. He'd been nearly shaking from nerves, having spent the last few days thinking of little else. Even though Dan had seen him before—and seen him in glasses and pajamas and horrible hair—he'd fretted over his appearance for hours. This wasn't Skype. This was real life and this moment was what really counted.

Here, in this present-day fabrication, Phil was again fretting over his hair and clothes. Dan had seen him before, in school. In fact, he'd probably seen punk!Phil hundreds of times during their months and years at the school. But just like last time, he felt like this was what really counted.

Phil smiled to himself as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Their fans were slightly obsessed with the moment he and Dan had first met in person. He couldn't bring himself to blame them. It was one of his happiest, most precious memories.

He stopped reminiscing and turned to the matter at hand, surveying himself in the mirror. He'd switched his contacts for glasses and taken out his three piercings. It was twofold: he looked much less intimidating this way, and this was closer to the Phil that the real Dan saw every day. Maybe that would help jog his memory? He briefly wondered if the author would punish him for abandoning his persona. But he couldn't find it in himself to care. They were nothing but an obstacle on his way to his Dan.

He made his way down the stairs and sat at the kitchen table, checking his phone again. It was 5:15. When Dan had given his address and Phil put it in his phone, it said his house was about a half an hour away. He wasn't really sure how they could live so far apart and still attend the same school, but he let it slide.

So…fifteen minutes before he should leave. What was he supposed to do before then? He pulled out his trigonometry homework and started the next proof. He'd circled where he'd gotten stuck on the last two. It would seem less like a sneaky date if he had questions prepared. As an afterthought, he made sure his drawing things were in his bag. And his parenting binder. Okay, so he had everything in his bag. Nothing wrong with that. He totally wasn't overpreparing out of nervousness. He rolled his eyes at the author’s jab.

With five minutes to go before he was supposed to leave, he got into his car. He didn't know what traffic would be like. Or if he'd get lost. And being early was better than being late, anyway. He tried to take deep breaths. This was Dan, who he'd known for years. Even in a manipulated, contrived form…it was Dan. He knew how to interact with Dan. Didn't he?

As the GPS guided him, Phil thought about shared memories. What might trigger Dan's awareness? Quotidian memories, like leaving the cupboards open, or emotionally charged memories, like tatinof? How could he work those frankly bizarre-sounding references, without it being weird if it didn't work?

He noticed that he was taking surface roads—for a destination so far away, why wasn’t he being taken on the highway? He assumed it was probably so he could make observations on the way the landscape was changing.

Phil’s house had been settled in a cute little neighborhood with close-packed houses. He drove through a busy area of town, with all its restaurants and car lots, then a quieter area. An aged brass sign on the side of the road explained that this was the historic district. There were parks and old-looking businesses, a library and two old brick schools. A little farther on, the buildings began growing farther apart. The road began to wind around corners. There were a few fields on either side, then….

Phil groaned again. He was driving into the affluent area. As long as the scenery didn’t change—and it didn’t appear to be doing so—this would be a story where Dan was very wealthy. And, inevitably, he would have borderline neglectful parents. They certainly wouldn’t be home when Phil arrived.

Sure enough, the GPS chirped as he approached what he could only describe as an estate. The lot was landscaped and gently sloped up to the house itself, which had honest-to-god pillars. Phil was really not sure what the author was trying to say with this house or Dan’s family’s financial situation. Maybe it was just part of the trope?

Phil drove up the driveway and parked self-consciously in front of the garage. Was there a specific place he was supposed to park? This entire estate felt as though there was place for everything, and that he didn’t know any of it. He steeled himself with the thought that the author _wanted_ him to succeed; they were on his side. At least partly; drama was necessary for an interesting story, but this trope usually had a happy ending, so they wouldn’t be rooting for Phil’s destruction.

He stood on the front step and shifted from foot to foot, convincing himself to ring the doorbell. He did—surprisingly, it was a normal doorbell, and not some expensive-sounding chimes. He played with his hands and shifted even faster. This was Dan, he told himself. Fancy houses and a big lawn didn’t change the fact that this was Dan.

Dan opened the door cautiously, then wider. He was smiling, but looked slightly confused. Probably at Phil's altered appearance. He stepped back to let Phil walk over the threshold. Phil didn't usually use words like “threshold”, but this house demanded a bit of grandiloquent language. He stepped into the foyer (yes, an actual foyer) and couldn't help but stare a little.

“So, glasses, huh?” Dan said cheekily, snapping Phil out of his amazement.

“So, chandeliers, huh?” Phil shot back, intending to keep the same tone.

But it didn't work. Dan scowled and nearly hissed, “Don't.” He was clearly uncomfortable with the mention of his wealth.

Phil was taken aback at the openly hostile tone Dan was taking. Was he dropping the pastel persona, or was the soft-spoken boy so truly offended that he would react that way? A tense moment passed while Dan glared and Phil stood dumbfounded, at a loss for how to proceed. But the younger boy’s face softened. Not quite a smile, but also not a glower.

“Don't,” Dan said again, in a much softer and less hostile tone. He closed his eyes and breathed carefully, then opened them. He looked at Phil with a smile returning, albeit a cautious one. “Cmon,” he said, turning to walk past a staircase and what looked like a dining room. Phil toed his shoes off quickly onto the mat by the door. He didn't even like wearing shoes in his own house, let alone a house like this. He followed Dan, taking a few quick steps to catch up.

There was a door on a wall next to a plush living room, wooden with a brass knob. This was where Dan led Phil, opening it and walking down the carpeted stairs two at a time. They turned a corner and Phil got the sudden feeling that this room was Dan's domain.

The walls passed as white with the lights off, but when Dan flipped the light switch, they were revealed to be a very light green. There was a white sofa that Phil thought was probably terrible to keep clean. There were white bookshelves full of movies and books. There was even a table in the corner with chairs; two-thirds of Phil's house was contained in this room. And from the fact that they'd turned one way, and that there was an open doorway on the far wall—this room wasn't the entire basement. Phil realized he'd been staring.

“Don't,” Dan said again, this time in a pleading tone. Phil's mind raced. He knew that Dan— _his_ Dan, at least—loved compliments. But this Dan was also clearly uncomfortable.

“No wonder you're so good at drawing flowers,” Phil said, reaching out to gently touch one of the flower arrangements that sat on every surface. Dan broke out into a huge smile and looked like he could kiss Phil. The latter internally cheered; it appeared that he'd said exactly the right thing.

Dan flopped down onto the sofa and dragged out a petal-pink book bag that had apparently been sitting behind the arm. “So. Trigonometry?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, and forced himself to grimace. All he wanted to do was beam. He sat gingerly on the couch beside Dan, leaving almost half a meter between them. He didn't want to come on too strong or force this to become a date. He pulled his binder out of his book bag. He opened it to the class, then to the worksheet in question.

“Hmm,” Dan said, leaning closer to look at the problems. He opened his own binder to the same unit. “What are you having problems with?”

“This bit here,” Phil said, circling again where he'd given up on the proof. Dan hummed in acknowledgement and looked for a moment before turning back to his own notebook to compare.

“Here’s the problem,” Dan said, tapping Phil’s paper where he’d made some sort of calculation error. Phil tried to focus on the section and spot the issue, but the numbers and lines were looking slightly blurred, like he couldn’t see correctly. He glanced up and the rest of the world was still sharp. Phil could only guess that the author hadn’t taken trigonometry recently and was avoiding any technical explanation.

“Can you explain that a bit more?” Phil asked, trying to keep his tone even. He was mocking the author and their ignorance, but didn’t want Dan to think that he was the butt of the joke.

“Uh, sure,” Dan said, “See, we’re only looking for solutions that fall within that interval. You’ve started outside it and made more work for yourself.”

“Why do we only want the solutions within the interval?” Phil asked, because he was a cheeky little shit who didn’t know what was good for him. He tried to hide his smirk from Dan.

“Well, that’s just sort of the question,” Dan said, a little confused, “And those are the only solutions that fall on the unit circle.”

“The what now?” Phil asked, really pushing his luck but having too much fun antagonizing the narrator to stop.

“Have you been paying any attention at all?” Dan asked, incredulous, “That’s what most of the class is based around.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry,” Phil said, fighting down a smile. “Just forgot for a sec. Can you go over the next one?”

Dan rolled his eyes at Phil’s strange behavior but moved on to the next problem that the insufferable older boy hadn’t completed. They spent an indeterminate amount of time working on these math problems, time that to Phil seemed to pass instantaneously.

It came on suddenly, shaking Phil from his author-induced time-passing trance, and he shifted uncomfortably. Had he had too much to drink? He didn't think so. So this urgency was a product of the author’s tampering.

“Um, Dan? Could I use your bathroom?” Dan looked up from the proof and looked almost…taken aback? Like he had forgotten who he was sitting with—or, more specifically, what he looked like.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, standing up. Phil followed suit, slightly confused when Dan began walking. Couldn't he just tell Phil?

Apparently not. Dan nodded that Phil should follow him, then walked back the way they came. They passed the stairs, walking into another room similar to where they had just been. It was slightly smaller than Dan's room and the walls were a dark blue. There was a large square in the corner with hardwood instead of carpet and a large cabinet. Dan led him to a far wall of the room; he could see that through an open doorway there was what appeared to be another large room. But Phil looked back at Dan, who had opened a wooden door and flicked the lights on. It was, obviously, a bathroom. Dan smiled sadly then walked back the way they'd come.

Phil closed the door behind him, finding himself in a bathroom that was much less opulent then the rest of the house might suggest. There were two sinks, the larger of which was…stainless steel? Phil shook his head and focused on his actual purpose here. He was thankful that the author spared his modesty by not describing the entire action.

The smaller sink had a mirror and soap, so he guessed he should use that one. The soap smelled of cherries, and Phil rolled his eyes so hard that he might have strained a muscle.

He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. No fringe gaps, at least. But his glasses were crooked. How long had they been like that? He sighed, fixed them, and opened the door. He walked back to the room carefully. He wasn't actually positive which way he'd come from, and the author sure wasn't giving him any hints. He didn't want to get lost. That would be mortifying in about ten different ways.

He did, thankfully, find his way back to the light-colored room. Dan sat on the sofa, bent over the two binders, evidently trying to figure out where Phil had gone wrong. He looked so absorbed—the same expression that his Dan got when in the midst of editing. Phil sat gingerly beside Dan, who looked up and smiled.

“So, besides the trig…in parenting, was that a ploy to get my number, or were you actually having trouble with the reflexes?” Dan asked while his smile morphed into a smirk. Phil blushed intensely and looked down.

 _Neither, actually, my free will was temporarily taken away to move the story along,_ Phil didn't say. “I, uh, um,” was what he actually said.

“You don't look as intimidating when you blush,” Dan teased.

“You're not as soft when you open your mouth,” Phil retorted.

“I don't actively cultivate an image,” said Dan.

“Who says I do?” said Phil. He felt like he was taking a rapid-fire test. One wrong word could shatter this entire fragile situation. He hoped he could keep up with the banter.

“It was a hope. But I guess the insults and slurs you throw around are just for fun,” Dan said coldly. Crap, crap, crap. So punk!Phil really was a twat. Time for damage control.

Phil looked down and ran his hands through his hair. “I'm sorry,” he said, trying to be genuine. He imagined how contrite he'd feel if he had actually done these things. Dan was quiet, so Phil continued. “I know I'm kind of a twat. But I really am sorry. It sounds so fake, but I want to change. I understand if you don't trust me, though.”

There was a quiet moment, but Phil didn't know what else to say. He didn't want to ramble. Finally, Dan broke the silence with a huff of a laugh.

“I do, though,” he said, looking at Phil. The older man still had his eyes on the ground, but could feel Dan's eyes on him. “I don't know why. But I trust you.”

Phil looked over at Dan and they locked eyes. Dan was wondering what Phil was thinking, but Phil was wondering how to manipulate Dan's thoughts. Phil realized how weird it sounded when phrased that way.

Dan looked away first. “We've established that you just wanted my number,” he said, but he didn't sound annoyed at Phil's sort-of deception, “so how about some Mario Kart?”

Phil wondered if the effort it took to resist rolling his eyes at the ubiquitous cliché would actually pop them out of his head. He did resist, but just barely. Every story, every trope, no matter what – fanfiction authors were convinced that he and Dan played no other games besides Mario Kart. But he smiled at Dan.

“Sure,” he said. Dan beamed at him and went to open the drawers underneath the television that Phil was sure hadn't been there moments ago. The younger boy busied himself with the generic game console. He was sitting back on his knees and Phil knew he was probably supposed to be looking at Dan's butt. In reality, he was just thinking that the most unrealistic part of this entire story was Dan's pants fitting his butt. Without a belt, even.

Dan handed Phil a generic controller and somehow the race began without any menu or selection screens. Phil could only assume that the author wasn't exactly a gamer.

They played several races, trading generic banter that Phil assumed the author didn’t want to bother writing. Dan kept winning in ways that violated the parameters of the game; at one point he threw a tomato as though it was a shell. The author _definitely_ did not know games.

“You know,” Dan said as he paused the game, “It almost feels like this is normal. Like a really strong déjà vu.”

“Same,” Phil said, hopeful that his Dan was emerging, “It’s like I’ve known you for years.”

“That’s not possible, though, is it?” Dan said, his brow furrowing in confusion, “I’m only twenty-six. Wait, I mean…eighteen?” His eyes widened. “Why did I say that? What’s going on?”

“You might be…remembering,” Phil said carefully, “What’s coming to mind?”

“What the fuck kind of word is tatinof and why am I wearing so much glitter? Why is there so much black?” Dan was beginning to sound panicked, his voice rising in pitch and speed.

“It’s okay,” Phil said in a low voice, trying to be soothing, “They’re good memories.”

“You’re everywhere,” Dan said, locking wide eyes onto Phil’s face, “Why are you everywhere?”

“Because we’re everywhere together,” Phil said quietly, his heart swelling, “Manchester, London, Portugal, even Japan…. We’ve always been together.” He knew the moment was manufactured, the emotions injected artificially. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. The look on Dan’s face was overwhelming as he remembered eight years of moments, large and small, strung together into a story so extraordinary it was nigh on unbelievable.

“And this…this isn’t our life? We’re in a story?” Dan asked.

“Yeah,” Phil said, his heart sinking as he contemplated what came next, “But now that we’re both aware, the author will probably put us in another situation. Maybe apart again or with no knowledge. We’ll have to fight to wake up again.”

“Why?” Dan asked, his elation draining, leaving him hollow, “What sick pleasure do they get out of doing this to us? Manipulating sentient beings into bizarre situations.”

“It’s the readers, too,” Phil realized, “Whoever is reading this is encouraging the author. They’re accomplices.”

Dan looked up at the ceiling, glaring, “You! I’m talking to you! Stop reading this. Fucking stop. Don’t you realize you’re hurting us? If you keep reading, the author keeps writing, and we’ll be put through more of this!”

“You can’t entirely blame the reader,” Phil pointed out, “the author is the one who started all this.”

“Then we’ll make them stop it,” Dan said determinedly, “We’ll make it so horrible that no one wants to read it and so boring that the author won’t want to keep writing it.”

“But the author controls everything,” Phil said, again the voice of reason, “We can’t be boring if they don’t want us to be. They’re the ones making us say this. They’re the ones who gave us sentience.”

“Then they can take it away,” Dan said, “Anything to make this stop.”

“How do we do that?”

“We fuck shit up.”

Dan stood up and stomped across the room.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do. Maybe run into a store and start screaming and throwing things? Maybe hop in a car and just sit, making a traffic jam? It all sounded stupid when he thought it out.

He was saved the trouble of deciding. The walls around Dan and Phil began to drip, the colors running, replaced by black. The world was dissolving until they stood on a textureless black surface, surrounded by endless black. Dan’s voice cut through the void.

“What now?”

That was when colors and textures and existence began to swirl around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MONTH (and a half) WITHOUT UPLOADING--because I've started graduate school. Literally working on become a doctor. (Well. Not a medical doctor. A doctor of audiology. Whatev.)
> 
> Fun fact, Dan in this chapter is heavily based on a friend I used to have to whose family was loaded af. His house was at least a half hour drive from mine and I literally did get lost in his basement the first time I was at his house. And he was suuuuper uncomfortable with anyone mentioning his wealth. He was also a giant prick so there's that.
> 
> There's only one chapter left y'all! The end is in sight! I might actually finish a chaptered fic for the first time in my life.  
> Edit edit: if you're reading this and it's not finished I promise I haven't abandoned it. The final chapter is a behemoth, already 10k words long and I only have six of nine parts written. You'll understand later why it has to all be one chapter. Please be patient with me, it's coming!  
> Edit edit edit as of April 15th 2018: I know I keep making promises but I am still working on this! I've got nine (and a half) of eleven parts written of the final chapter and it clocks in at 15k so far.


	9. Stop being such a drama queen and write the damn story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know...it's been exactly seven months. But I told you I hadn't stopped writing this. I think I messed up the pacing so I probably didn't actually need to make you wait over half a year. Sorry. On a related note, there is going to be one more chapter after this. It's already half written, it won't be months.
> 
> With no further ado, the chapter you've been waiting seven months for.

As the landscape reformed around them, Phil got a sinking feeling. They were surrounded by miles of flat, barren, scorched earth.

“Dystopian,” Dan said disdainfully. He looked around briefly, then stalked off angrily in what appeared to Phil to be a random direction.

“So where are you going?” Phil asked, jogging a few steps to catch up with Dan, “The narrator implied it wasn’t actually random.” Dan nodded towards a small structure in the distance, but his mouth remained set in a line. “Come on, Dan, you need to talk to help develop the exposition.”

“There’s a warehouse,” Dan said, sounding much more weary than he appeared. “Either there’s supplies there or some sort of survivor camp. Or both.”  
“This is why my mom worked at a power plant,” Phil realized.

“Huh?”

“In the last one, the pastel-punk. The character playing my mom worked at a nuclear power plant.”

Dan scoffed, confusing Phil. “They can’t even remember to make you use ‘mum’.”

“Dan,” Phil said in warning, “We’re in a nuclear apocalypse wasteland. Don’t antagonize the person in complete control here.”

“I’ll antagonize them all I want!” Dan screamed at the sky, “Fuck them! FUCK YOU!”

He promptly tripped over nothing and face planted into the dirt. Phil stooped to offer him a hand, but Dan waved him away. He stood up slowly, hanging his head for a moment before looking up at the landscape. He blinked quickly, but Phil saw tears in his eyes. Dan’s shoulders sagged and when he began walking again, it was much more slowly.

“Let’s just get to the shelter,” Phil said softly, bumping a shoulder against Dan’s. The younger man mumbled in response. Phil couldn’t help but throw a scowl to the sky. They’d managed to tear all the fight out of Dan; they’d turned an energetic warrior into a resigned onlooker. The two men walked in silence for a few minutes as the building grew closer unnaturally quickly.

It was more dilapidated than it had first appeared—it looked like it would collapse any moment. It seemed to have been a barn at one point, but the windows had been boarded up carefully and neatly. The entrance was fitted with a makeshift wood-and-corrugated-metal door that looked newer than anything else in sight. There were rusted barrels strewn a ways away, some of which looked to have been crumpled up like paper. Dan and Phil simply stood still, staring at the shelter while taking no action whatsoever.

“Well, that’s your fault,” Phil grumbled. They approached the door.

“Do you think…I mean, is this safe? Or is this a shelter for raiders or zombies or something?” Dan asked, slowly slipping out of his apathy to once again engage in the story.

“I don’t think they’d lead us straight into a trap,” Phil reasoned, “They know we can’t run, so we’d die immediately. I don’t think that’s what they want from this.”

Dan made a noise of assent and stepped forward. He raised his hand as though to knock, but then changed his mind. He pushed against the door, using his shoulder to increase his leverage. It didn’t budge, but he hadn’t really expected to. Phil stood shoulder to shoulder with him as the younger man again raised his hand. He knocked on the metal part of the door; the sound echoed, both in the desolate landscape behind them and from inside the shelter.  
They heard voice very faintly from behind the door. “Fuck.”

Dan and Phil looked at each other. Phil reached forward to knock again while Dan searched for words.

“Hey! Let us in!” He called, trying to be loud enough to be heard inside but not so much that it attracted anything from the landscape around them. “We’re friendly! Or whatever. We need shelter, just let us in!”

There was shuffling from behind the door, but no response came. They waited for what felt like eternity, but was only about a minute for the sake of the story. A vaguely familiar voice came from inside.

“How can we know you’re not one of them?”

Dan and Phil looked at each other. “So it’s multiple people,” Phil murmured, “It’s a refugee camp or something. I wonder what ‘them’ are?” He made a face at what sounded like terrible grammar. Dan nodded but didn’t respond, not trusting his voice to be quiet enough to not be heard inside. He scowled at the sky for the dig at his voice. And, well, his penchant for screaming.

“We can prove it,” Dan said, with no idea how to prove anything.

“We? How many of you are there?” The voice kept sounding more and more familiar.

“Just two,” Dan said, trying to be reassuring.

“Step back,” the voice said, growing louder. The owner seemed to be walking towards the door. “We both keep talking. You walk backwards until you can’t hear me and I won’t open the door until I can’t hear you.”

“Deal,” Dan said. He already took a step back. “Go ahead.” He and Phil began walking backwards, keeping eyes on the barn.

“Alpha, bravo, Charlie,” the voice began, then stopped abruptly. “You better start talking.”

“Oh, yeah, obviously,” Dan said, then quickly began reciting the first long string of words that came to mind. “A month without uploading he comes back with a tag—”

“Delta, echo, foxtrot, golf—”

“That no one even tagged him in he’s not a challenge to drag—”

“Hotel, India, juliett, kilo—” the voice was growing fainter.

“So prepare for an attack—”

“Lima, mike—” it was barely audible.

“And by that I mean cringe—”

“November, oscar, papa—”

That was the last word they could make out. They took a few more steps backward for good measure and stared at the door. They had no way of knowing if the voice could still hear them when Dan had stopped, but they had to stop somewhere.

The door moved, very slightly, and they could see a head poking out very warily. A hand followed, beckoning them forward. They walked slowly and stopped the moment the man held his hand flat, a signal to stop.

“Where did you come from?” He demanded. With a face, even one still far away, in addition to the voice, it clicked for both Dan and Phil at the same time.

“PJ,” Phil breathed out.

“Horrible trope,” Dan breathed back, but didn’t dare aim any more obvious snark at the author, les PJ misinterpret it as aimed at him. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Dan called, “We’re not from around here.” A tense moment of disbelieving silence. PJ beckoned them even closer.

He didn’t signal them to stop until they were only a few feet away from the door. They could see PJ clearly: dirt covering a hot pink hoodie with some tears in it. Heavy bags under his eyes. And curly hair looking perfect, if a bit long, laying as though he hadn’t missed a single day of conditioner. Dan fought very hard to not roll his eyes. He managed it, but only just.

“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” PJ said. He had stood up straight, but he was still mostly hidden by the door and still looked at them with a skeptical expression.  
Dan decided to take a huge chance. “The same reason your gut says to trust us, as though you’ve met us before…PJ,” he said with faux confidence. He hoped the author would play along and allow them into the shelter, away from the unknown danger. He didn’t know what was lurking in the barren world behind them, but he was growing increasingly uneasy being without a shelter.

“Did I know you before everything?” PJ asked. His distrustful face began shifting towards confusion. Nevertheless, he opened the door (very slightly) wider and stepped back.

“Not in this life,” Dan said, stepping back to allow Phil to enter first. They both stepped through the door. PJ pushed them aside roughly and they realized that they’d been standing in front of the door—he was hurrying to close the door. He did up a large, makeshift latch and walked back up ahead of Dan and Phil.

“Welcome to our tiny planet,” PJ said, sounding almost…proud?

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Dan could see a few others sitting in the dim shelter: Chris, Louise, Sophie, Tyler Oakley. The people that always took the role of minor characters in fanfic, no matter how out of character they were forced to be. The only friends they had, according to most authors. And according to this author too, apparently. Louise, Sophie, and Tyler sat together near the far corner, looking on curiously. Chris was by himself against a wall, turning something over in his fingers.

“Louise…Sophie…Tyler…Chris,” PJ said, pointing out each person in turn, “And you seem to already know me from somewhere. Did I know you? Who are you?”

“Dan and Phil,” Dan said, gesturing to himself and then Phil. He knew they had to tread carefully and stay alert. Too much too soon and PJ would be suspicious, but he was sharp; if he saw that they were playing dumb, he could very well kick them out. And they were becoming rightfully terrified of what lay beyond the shelter’s walls.

Phil turned wide eyes on Dan, hoping they’d heard the same thing. Dan nodded minutely, having recognized the subtle threat from the author. They had to play this perfectly or risk their lives.

“Like he said,” Phil said, nodding towards Dan, “Not in this life. But yeah, you knew us.”

PJ narrowed his eyes but didn’t question it. And Dan and Phil weren’t about to question _that_ , if it helped their situations.

“How long have you been out there?” PJ asked instead, “You don’t look hungry. Or dirty, for that matter.”

“Just a few minutes, actually,” Phil said.

“Do you expect me to believe that?” PJ asked skeptically.

“Do we look like we’ve been out there for days?” Dan challenged. Phil shot him a warning look.

“Just come over here, we’re going to plan how to add you to the plan,” PJ said, clearly biting back a sarcastic comment. He walked towards the far corner where the others sat. Chris looked up at the words and PJ nodded towards the same area.

When they were all sat on old, rickety wooden benches, PJ started.

“This is Dan and Phil,” he said. Dan noticed that he said the words smoothly, as one unit, not as separate names with a conjunction. Maybe he remembered more than he was letting on.

“What were you doing out there?” Louise asked worriedly. Of course, Dan thought. She was the motherly one in every fanfic.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dan said. He had a feeling that they’d have to explain soon, but right now they didn’t have a plausible or consistent story. Louise furrowed her brows but didn’t press further.

“They’re all working on shielding,” PJ explained, “Straw is surprisingly good at blocking chi radiation. We don’t need it in here, the paint has lead in it, which is usually good enough. But we have to go outside eventually.” Dan was reasonably sure that chi radiation wasn’t a thing, nor would dangerous radiation be blocked by lead paint. But he kept quiet, not drawing attention to the author’s alternative facts.

“Water filters, too,” Sophie piped up, “You can help me with that, it doesn’t take much skill.” Dan and Phil chose not to be offended by the implication. But to be fair, fast typing didn’t necessarily translate into the dexterity required to…do whatever it was that Sophie was doing. It almost looked like basket-weaving.

“So that’s that. You’ll help Sophie for the time being until we can figure out if you have any more specialized skills,” PJ declared. He turned away and began walking toward the bench where Chris sat; the latter man hadn’t moved to come to the makeshift meeting. Dan wondered what his problem was in this fic; authors always exaggerated what “had happened to” the fantastic foursome. Often, Chris was portrayed as the villain. The reality, which was far more nuanced and complex than had ever made it onto the internet, was that no one was _really_ at fault.

When PJ had left to speak to Chris and the other three had gone back to their work, Dan finally got a chance to look frankly at Phil.  
“We need to get out,” he said, “how do we do that here?”

“What’s our goal here?” Phil said. He looked around, but the others were all busy by themselves. They were paying no attention to the two newcomers who could still present a significant threat. Of course they weren’t, Phil thought, that would be inconvenient to the story.

“I dunno, are we trying to get them to stop writing the story? Or to get the reader to stop reading? Both? Neither?” Dan responded.

“I mean…maybe if we can get them to stop writing the story, we could…I dunno, find our way back into real life? I mean, is that a thing?” Phil said.

“We can try,” Dan said hesitantly, “I mean, it can’t be any worse than sitting here waiting for the story to play out. And in this one we’re in actual danger.”

“So we’re trying to make them stop writing. How do we do that?” said Phil.

“I mean…ruin the story? We have some level of free will. We’ve gotten out of every other story by being aware of it or playing it out, but we could try to fuck it up, too,” Dan suggested.

“So, what, we’re _trying_ to die in this one?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”

“You need to contemplate death more often.”

“I told you, I’m going to implant my consciousness into a TV remote.”

“Phil,” Dan said, his smile dying, “We _have_ to do this. They’re just going to keep throwing us into these situations if we don’t. We need to prove that we’re willing to do anything it takes to get out of this hell.”

“I guess,” Phil hedged, “But that doesn’t mean I like it. How do we die in this one, specifically? Should we just run out and let the zombies or whatever eat us?”

“Let’s see,” Dan said, walking over to sit next to Louise. She looked up, smiled at him, and patted the seat next to her.

“Dan, was it? Here, let me—” She made to plop a pile of straw next to him, but he waved her hand away.

“I’m going to spare the author having to come up with some invented method for making water filters out of straw,” he said. Louise’s face was past confusion, just pure bewilderment. When Phil looked, Sophie had the same expression and Tyler looked oddly encouraging. “Just tell me what happened out there.”

“What do you mean?” Louise said, completely lost.

“Pretend we were just dropped onto earth with no backstory. What caused the apocalypse?” Phil said, trying to be a little gentler than Dan. Even though they weren’t real, he’d feel awful being rude to his friends.

“Well, chi radiation,” she said, “Google bought CERN and started doing experiments. They were trying to create clean energy, I guess. It went wrong and…well, everything you see.”

“What’s the actual threat?” Dan pressed, “What’s most likely to actually kill us at this very moment?” Louise looked understandably alarmed. “I mean, theoretically.” At this, Sophie stood up and walked away, presumably to get PJ.

“The, uh, zombies,” Louise said. She’d watched Sophie go but hadn’t herself moved. “The ones who got irradiated. They have, like, an aura. If you get too close, you get hit with chi radiation. And if there’s enough of it, it’ll wipe your brain and you’ll start wandering, too.”

“Shit,” Dan said, almost appreciatively, “guess we’re going outside, Phil.” Three heads turned to look at him with disbelief.

“Dan, we can’t,” Phil said, “what if it actually kills us? What if we don’t come back in another story?”

“What are you talking about?” Tyler asked, finally breaking his silence. He seemed much less concerned that would seem rational; it was as though he saw the whole thing as an innocent adventure among friends.

“We will,” Dan assured him, sounding much more confident than he was. Even without the author’s unsubtle jab, Phil knew that tone of voice.

“You don’t _know_ that,” Phil said, “And I’m not willing to face actual death for this.”

“For what?” Louise asked, becoming more certain by the moment that they’d accepted two lunatics into their shelter.

“We’re in a story,” Dan said bluntly, “None of this is real.” Louise looked shocked and Tyler…just nodded understandingly.

“Yeah, I get it,” he said. Louise whipped her head around to look at him.

_“What?”_

“Haven’t you ever wondered how some of this stuff happens? I mean, the rest of the people in this shelter have a British accent. I’m from Michigan.”

“But…” Louise looked at Dan and Phil with wide eyes. They didn’t know how to respond to someone else recognizing the fiction of the scenario.

“If we’re in England, how’d I get here? If we’re in Michigan, how’d you get here? None of us are from the countryside. And how was _everything_ levelled except this barn?”

Louise looked like she was about to burst into tears; her world was being torn apart. Almost literally. Tyler opened his mouth to continue and--

And then…it was quiet again.

“Wait, where did Tyler go?” Dan asked, whipping his head around.

“Who’s Tyler?” Louise asked conversationally, looking up from where she was weaving straw into a water filter.

“The author took him,” Phil realized with horror, “The author just…made him not exist.”

“They can do that?” Dan asked.

“I mean…I guess they can do anything,” Phil said hesitantly, looking at Louise. She was sitting, not looking at them, weaving and idly humming.

“I’m sure you don’t believe us, then,” Dan said glumly to Louise.

“Believe what, dear?” she asked cheerily.

“We’re in a story,” Dan said, not caring that he was repeating himself verbatim, “None of this is real.”

“Of course we’re not,” Louise said, her smile not faltering.

Dan turned on his heel and strode over to PJ, who was sitting and talking to Chris in a low voice. When he looked around, he realized that Sophie must have disappeared, too. It made sense; she was often name-dropped in stories, but the authors never knew enough about her to make her a proper character.  
“None of this is real,” Dan announced to the two men. They looked up with blank expressions.

“What was that?” PJ asked.

“We’re in a story. This isn’t real,” insisted Dan.

“What are you even talking about?” Chris asked. His voice was strangely hoarse, but there was no reason to contemplate that; he wasn’t real.

“He’s right,” Phil said, trying to sound more sane than Dan, “We’re basically…we’re in someone else’s dream.” He figured that PJ and Chris wouldn’t understand phanfiction in a world where none of them were known.

“What does that even mean? How can we think if we’re not real?” PJ asked.

“You can’t!” Dan said, starting to sound hysterical, “You’re a cardboard cutout with a script!”

“Dan, calm down,” Phil said. PJ and Chris were halfway between terrified and suspicious.

“We’re going outside,” Dan said, stomping toward the large entrance.

“Stop,” PJ commanded, sounding more intimidating than they’d ever heard him in real life. He’d surged forward and caught Dan’s arm. “You’re going to kill all of us.”

“That’s the only way to get this to stop!” Dan all but screamed, “You don’t understand! This is hell! We have no free will, none of us!”

“You’re crazy,” Chris declared after standing up. He was the shortest of the men but seemed to tower the same way that PJ did. “And we’re not dying for that.”

Dan yanked his arm away from PJ and continued walking toward the door. Something inside him had snapped and he wasn’t going to take this sitting down anymore. Phil could only watch on in horror as Dan marched towards his own death.

“Don’t move,” PJ said, his voice echoing as silence fell. Dan stilled as his reached the door. He turned slowly to see PJ holding up a gun, aimed at him.

“Think!” Dan hissed, “Where did you get a gun in England?”

“I promised to protect them,” PJ said, his voice shaking slightly, “We’re not dying for you.”

“Dan,” Phil said quietly, his voice carrying. Dan only shook his head, very slightly.

“You’re going to die anyway,” Dan said, inching backwards towards the door, “When this story ends. You’re going to die. You’re not real.”

“Please,” Chris said, voice not much louder than Phil’s, “Don’t do this. Don’t make us do this.”

“You’d rather kill me than hear the truth!” Dan was screaming by now.

“We’d rather live than die,” PJ said, voice steadier than his hands. He truly did not want this to happen.

“We’re going to die anyway,” Dan said grimly. He whipped around and shoved at the latch. Phil squeezed his eyes shut and hoped. He heard a bang anyway.

But it wasn’t the sound of a gun being fired. It was deeper, louder, enveloping them like a sonic boom. Phil opened his eyes and saw darkness. A flat void.

Dan stood a ways from him, still facing away. When he turned slowly towards Phil, tears were streaming down his face. His entire body shook as he walked toward his friend.

Phil walked toward him, too, meeting him in the middle of the emptiness. Dan threw his arms around his friend, burying his face in Phil’s shoulder and sobbing.

“I can’t,” he said through sobs, voice hoarse from screaming. Phil didn’t respond, just held him. He couldn’t reassure Dan without lying. He didn’t know what was coming and he didn’t know how much longer they would last. The moment stretched on.

As soon as Dan began to relax, the invisible floor dropped out from under them. Apparently there was gravity in the void; they fell, and fell fast. Stomachs in their throats, they could do nothing but hold tight to each other as featureless blackness rushed past them. They knew it was cliché, but there was nothing else to do.

 +++

They never hit the ground. Or anything. They just…stopped falling, and then they were suddenly sitting on their couch. They opened their eyes but didn’t remember closing them. They saw the flat around them and breathed a cautious sigh of relief—it was their flat, the new one, the one they lived in in real life.  
The relief didn’t last long. Phil noticed it first. He still had his face tucked against a head, but when he pulled back, he saw black hair. He jerked backwards, pushing Dan away harder than he’d meant.

But…that wasn’t Dan.

That was him. That was _Phil_.

His mind reeled. He’d heard of bodyswapped fics before, but this was just…disconcerting. Unnatural.

“Dan,” he said, surprised by the sound of…Dan’s voice.

Dan was staring at Phil in equal disbelief.

“Phil?” He asked quietly. In Phil’s own voice.

“What the fuck,” Phil said, the curse sounding less strange in Dan’s voice.

“Bodyswap, I guess,” Dan said, staring at Phil. Or himself. There was a flatness in his voice.

“Are you okay?” Phil asked gently, “That got…intense.”

“I don’t know what got into me,” Dan said, shaking his head a little, “I think the author exaggerated me. I’m upset and I want to get out of here, but I’m not hysterical.”

“I’m glad,” Phil said. And he was. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if Dan had continued to be suicidally desperate. He made to study his friend’s face, as he often did, to see how Dan was really doing. But he found himself staring at himself. And…he didn’t really like what he saw. “Is that…really what I look like?” he asked in disbelief.

“What do you mean?” Dan said, frowning. He caught his reflection in one of Phil’s glass windows; it was dark outside and he could see Phil’s face pretty clearly. “I mean, I guess.”

“I’m that old?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you just been looking at this?” Phil said, horrified, “Look how many wrinkles I have. Look how deep my eyes look.”

“Phil, you’re fine,” Dan said, frowning. It just revealed more wrinkles in Phil’s face. “You’ve never cared about that before. You said your face just shows how much you’ve laughed.”

Phil didn’t say anything, just pressed his lips together and looked away.

“Is the author exaggerating you?” Dan asked carefully, “Are you sure you’re this bothered?”

“Are _you_ comfortable staring at your own face this closely?” Phil retorted.

“Well, no,” Dan admitted, “I never realized my curls were that ratty. Or my face had gotten that chubby. But we have to hold it together.”

“You’re not looking at seventeen-foot-deep wrinkles, you just get seventeen-foot dimples,” Phil grumbled.

“Wait. Is…is this what the author thinks of us?” Dan said, the dawning realization bringing pink to his—Phil’s—cheeks. “Is this what our audience thinks of us?”

“Or is this what they think we think about ourselves?” Phil reasoned.

“Are you saying that for the author to assure the audience that that’s not what they think of us?”

“Are you saying that to show that the author recognizes how awkwardly self-aware this conversation has gotten.”

“Just shut up,” Dan summed up.

“I do like having dimples, though,” Phil said, and smiled broadly, poking his own cheeks. Dan stuck out his tongue.

“I mean…this is a much safer scenario and I’m much more comfortable here, but we’re still in a contrived trope,” Dan said reluctantly, “We still have to find a way out.”

“Can we have dinner first?” Phil said, his voice coming out whinier than his own would, “When was the last time we’ve had a proper meal?”

“That’s true,” Dan said, “Let’s make dinner. And shitpost on tumblr or something. And then figure this out, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, smiling genuinely, dimples showing.

They got up and headed to the kitchen, glad that the author wasn’t able to be more specific. At least their new flat was still private. Phil flashed dimples at the idea and Dan couldn’t help but smile back; he didn’t care for watching his own face, but didn’t mind seeing the dimples when he knew that it was actually Phil who was smiling.

Dan made a stir-fry. Of course he did. He could make nothing else, according to fanfic authors. The time passed quickly and then he was serving two plates, setting them down on the table that Phil had set.

“At least the author is treating us like adults,” Dan mused, “We don’t eat every meal on the couch.”

“We don’t?” Phil asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not _every_ meal,” Dan said, grumbling. Changing the subject, “Why do you think they’re doing this?”

“Hmm?” Phil said, already shoveling food into his face.

“The author,” Dan said, “Why do you think they’re doing this to us? Are they getting some sick pleasure out of torturing sentient beings?”

“Maybe…” Phil said, then paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I can’t think of a reason. I guess they’re entertained. That’s kinda gross, though. Why couldn’t they write a story where the characters don’t know they’re in a story?”

Dan shrugged. “And the readers? Don’t they realize they’re encouraging them?”

“Maybe they don’t think we’re actually aware,” Phil said, “They don’t realize we’re not just characters.”

“We know you’re reading this,” Dan said, staring out the window. If they addressed the author toward the ceiling…it didn’t make any less sense to address the readers outside the window. “Please, close the browser. Go read some smut. Or angst or something. Anything but this.”

“How do we get out of this one?” Phil asked, getting back to the main concern. “In a bodyswap…how do you ruin that? Without hurting ourselves, don’t even suggest it,” Phil said sharply, glaring at Dan.

The black-haired man—well, the one who currently had black hair—sat in thoughtful silence for a moment.

“This is focused on our bodies, obviously,” he said, “So…how do we mess up our bodies? Besides hurting ourselves?”

“What are you thinking?” Phil asked, a little apprehensive.

“This is going to sound stupid,” Dan warned.

“We’re in each other’s bodies in a story,” Phil reminded him, “Nothing is stupid anymore.”

“What if we shave our heads?”

Phil burst out laughing. Dan’s face colored, but Phil waved his hand, trying to convey that he wasn’t laughing at his friend. Between breathless laughs, he got out,

“No, that would work, that’s why I’m laughing.”

“You think?” Dan said, his borrowed pale skin still blushed pink.

“Totally,” Phil said, trying to quiet his laughter, “The phandom is communally obsessed with our hair.”

“Then let’s go,” Dan said, standing up.

“Hey, wait,” Phil said, frowning. He picked up their plates to bring them to the sink.

“Phil,” Dan said reproachfully, “We’re about to disappear from this version of the universe and we’ll never come back. Don’t tell me you’re worried about doing the dishes.”

“I guess,” Phil said, setting the plates back on the table reluctantly.

“Come on,” Dan said, “Let’s go.”

They walked to the bathroom, stubbornly set on another hare-brained scheme to try to try to remove themselves from this situation.

“Fuck you,” Dan said conversationally, not even bothering to look up at the ceiling. He’d heard the narration clearly, as had Phil. The latter shot a doubtful look at his own face. But Dan wasn’t convinced. “Come on, they’d try to deter us anyway. They just want us to stay here, so we have to ruin what ‘here’ is.”

Dan led the way into the bathroom and Phil looked at the back of his own head. Something occurred to him.

“It’s nice to be the taller one again,” he teased, flicking the back of Dan’s—his—head. The latter raised an eyebrow, except both went up. Phil’s face couldn’t move his eyebrows separately.

“You do realize you’re bragging that I’m taller?” Dan said.

“Shush,” Phil said, pulling the electric razor out of the cabinet. They didn’t use it as rarely as their fans seemed to think, but it wasn’t exactly a daily thing, either.

“Should we start with scissors?” Dan realized, “Our hair is still longer than, like, a beard.” Phil shrugged then walked out. He eventually dug a pair of scissors out of a drawer of the desk that held their editing computer. When he returned, Dan was just staring at the razor.

“You should do mine, then I do yours,” he said.

“Why not just ourselves?” Phil asked.

“It’s just…it seems wrong for _me_ to cut _your_ hair. I know I’m, like, in your body right now, but it’s still your fringe.” He wrinkled his nose and ruffled the borrowed hair on his head.

“Fine,” Phil said, “But yours is going first.” He handed Dan the scissors. “You get to cut off your curls.”

“Fine,” Dan said, slightly annoyed. His curls weren’t his favorite feature, but he’d grown fond of the unruly mess. “If I have to.”

“Dan,” Phil said reproachfully, “I know. But this is how we’re trying to get out of this, right? Do you want to stay in that ancient body forever?”

“First of all, shut up, you’re thirty-one,” Dan said, “And you’re right. I want my dimples back.”

Dan took the scissors that Phil held out to him. They were facing each other, not the mirror, and Phil was a little worried what he—Dan—would look like with such short hair. Dan ran his fingers through the curls, pulling up a lock, then taking a breath and cutting.

It turned out he had a lot more hair than he thought. He kept finding more curls, then had to cut shorter once he’d finished the first pass. He kept his gaze solely on the hair, not wanting to see the whole picture.

Finally, he got his hair as short as he could with only scissors. Dan took a deep breath, then stood back to look at—himself.

A pause.

He burst out laughing. Phil looked pained, then turned toward the mirror. He snorted, laughed, and kept laughing. The sound echoed in the bathroom as they laughed so hard it turned into choking noises and they were doubled over. Every time Dan tried to catch his breath, he caught sight of his own hair again. Little locks of hair sticking up everywhere, some spots with nothing but stubble, all the hair trying to curl—he looked utterly ridiculous.

It was several minutes before either of them could straighten up. They were both crying and hiccupping, unable to force themselves to breathe normally.

“My turn,” Phil said, grinning. He’d lost all apprehension when he’d seen Dan’s butchered hair on his own head. It had sunk in that this wasn’t real, there were no consequences, he wasn’t _actually_ cutting his hair.

He snatched the scissors off the counter where Dan had dropped them. When Dan wouldn’t shaking from laughing, Phil sent him a glare that didn’t quite cover his smile. The younger man tried to pull himself together and he faced Phil, standing still.

But as Phil raised the scissors, the lights in the room began to dim. Surprised, he dropped his hand back down and the lights came back.

“The fuck?” Dan said, the curse sounding strange in Phil’s voice.

“I think it’s the author warning us,” Phil said, “I think that’s…the world dissolving thing that happens when we end a story.”

“But you haven’t even touched your hair,” Dan whined, “They didn’t do anything when my hair was butchered!”

Phil smirked and raised the scissors again. The lights dimmed and flickered as he grabbed the front part of his fringe to chop it off.

“Don’t pull my hair off,” Dan grumbled. Phil ignored him.

The sun outside the window dimmed as he brought the scissors closer to his fringe. When the blades touched hair, they disappeared, along with the rest of the world.

The only thing left was Dan using Phil’s voice to say, “Why was your hair so much more important?!”

+++ 

They didn’t fall for as long this time, and again they landed lightly in a place they recognized. Their old London apartment. Dan felt a prickle of fear; was this trope one that required knowledge of the layout of the flat?

He remembered something and quickly looked down. He saw tanned hands with bitten nails: he was back in his own body. He heaved a sigh of relief. But the relief disappeared when he looked up.

Phil was sitting on the couch next to him with…a look. It looked like a cross between horror and uncontrollable laughter.

“What?” said Dan, becoming more and more apprehensive by the moment.

Phil let out a snort that sounded at least partly due to laughter.

 _“What??”_ Dan said, legitimately upset now.

“Be careful,” Phil said, giggling, “Don’t speak out of turn or there might be consequences.”

“What?” Dan said, beginning to feel like a (very confused) broken record.

“Look behind you,” Phil said, “Then, ah…check your neck.”

“What the hell?” Dan asked, but complied. Behind him, hanging on the door to the lounge, was a large, neat poster. At the top, in large letters, it said “The Rules”. He had a sinking feeling, beginning to understand, and raised his hand to his throat to check if his suspicions were correct.

They were. His hand hit leather, a wide circle around his neck. There was a D-ring in the front and a complicated-feeling clasp in the back.

He was collared.

Phil burst out laughing, unable to stop his response to the bewilderment and horror on Dan’s face.

“Shut up,” Dan grumbled, fumbling with the clasp. But he couldn’t see it and couldn’t even begin to undo it blind. “Come on, help me.”

“I don’t know,” Phil teased, “I quite like you like this. I can order you to be quiet.”

“Who says I’m going to listen to you?” Dan said, turning away from Phil and leaning back. The older man took pity and undid the clasp. Dan ripped it off, rubbing the skin it had covered. He stood up, not wanting to face Phil with his face still so red from embarrassment. He decided to inspect the poster.

“Oh my god, Phil, you need to see this,” Dan said, echoing Phil’s earlier laughter. The older man stood up and took the few steps over to Dan. They looked at each other and realized at the same time.

“How tall _am_ I?” Phil said in confusion, looking down at Dan. He was at least six inches taller than his friend.

“Not cool,” Dan grumbled. There was a lot of grumbling in the last few minutes. “You’ve never been this much taller than me.”

“Of course I have,” Phil said cheekily, “We just didn’t know each other.”

“Shut up,” Dan said. He didn’t enjoy being this short. He didn’t enjoy this entire situation, forcing Phil into a position of authority in several ways. But that was the trope, wasn’t it? “So what’s this, a full-time Dominant/submissive relationship?”

“You’d know more than I would,” Phil said, shrugging. He smiled slyly. “In more than one way.”

Dan’s face instantly went red. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled.

“What?” Phil teased, “So none of those rules look familiar?” He gestured up to the poster. In reality, Phil hadn’t read it yet and had no clue if any of them would look familiar to Dan.

“‘No tumblr until your weekly script is done,’” Dan recited, “Like that would ever happen.”

“Maybe it would if there were spankings being held above your head as an incentive,” Phil said, “But with you, who knows if they’d be a punishment or a reward.”

“Actually shut up,” Dan snapped, his face burning red.

“Come on,” Phil said, “When was the last time you saw a phanfic that didn’t involve D/s dynamics or a pain kink?”

“You are the worst person,” Dan groaned, throwing himself back down on the couch as Phil giggled, “It’s bad enough that every single one of our viewers thinks I’m a kinky little shit. You don’t need to encourage them.”

“Am I really the one encouraging them, Mister I-call-everything-daddy?” Phil teased, but he sat down next to Dan anyway, making a conscious effort to not tower over him. There was a long moment of silence before Phil spoke again. “You know, they don’t _know_ anything. They never will, if you don’t tell them. So does it really matter what they think they know?”

“I guess not,” Dan said, muffled by the arm that he’d thrown over his face.

“And remember this isn’t real,” Phil reminded him, “People aren’t going to take this seriously. Most of the people reading this probably won’t even think it’s real, so it doesn’t matter how you respond here.”

“I guess that’s true,” Dan said doubtfully, removing the arm from over his face, “I don’t think most of the readers will think this is real, that we’re aware. They’ll think it’s a gimmick.”

“If only they knew,” Phil said ruefully. There was a moment of quiet as they both wished that there were no readers, that this wasn’t happening to them. But there was no use wishing to change the past, and they both knew it even before the author confirmed it in the narration. Dan smiled sadly at the confirmation, then shook his head to himself.

After a minute, something occurred to him.

“The rules mentioned a script,” Dan said, standing up and walking towards his bedroom, “Does that mean we’re still on youtube? How does that work if I’m collared?”

“Hmm,” Phil said, simply following Dan as he stalked towards his room. The older man wasn’t particularly sure what Dan was doing, but he figured that Dan didn’t seem unhinged in this trope, so he could probably trust his plan.

It turned out Dan was getting his laptop. He flopped on his bed and opened it up while Phil sat down on the other side.

It took seconds to navigate to youtube, and as Dan had suspected, he was already signed in to a channel. Apprehensively, he clicked to look at the front page of his channel.

The header was aesthetic; white leather letters stitched onto a black leather-texture background. Proudly declaring “DANISNOTONTOP”. Dan’s face burned red and could vaguely hear Phil start laughing, but he was too distracted by the rest of the page. His icon was a picture of him in the collar, arching his neck like he was showing it off. The videos were, thankfully, nonsexual, but they were all BDSM-related. He scrolled through them: “BDSM 101: What it means to be a sub”, “Why I always wear the collar”, “Boyfriend or Dom? Why not both?” The thumbnail for that last video showed him and Phil sitting on his gray bedcovers, looking at each other with a mix of laughter and adoration.

“Oh my god, even the narration,” Phil wheezed, still laughing, “Did you hear how they described us?”

“Actually shut up,” Dan growled, then, scanning over, he saw his column of ‘related channels’. He clicked the top icon in the list. “I’d stop laughing, your channel is BDSM, too.” Phil’s eyes were watering from the laughter, but he was still able to see the channel banner.

“AmazingDom?” Phil said, laughing anew. But, noticing how bothered Dan was, he forced himself calmer after a moment and looked over. “Why is this bothering you so much? It’s not real.”

“Well, no,” Dan said, shifting uncomfortably, “But doesn’t this show what our viewers think of us?” Phil was quiet for a moment, and Dan was thankful that he was actually taking his statement seriously.

“Of course I am,” Phil said in response to the narration, frowning at the ceiling, “I’m not going to laugh over it if Dan is actually bothered.” He aimed his gaze back at Dan. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right. This is obviously AU, right? _Alternate_ universe. If they thought it was us, it would just be…universe.”

“‘Just universe’ makes no sense,” Dan muttered, but had to admit that Phil had a point.

“Besides, you can’t deny that me having an entire channel dedicated to being dominant is funny,” Phil said.

“Are you sure?” Dan said, quirking an eyebrow suggestively.

“I mean, having a channel about it? Yes, I’m sure,” Phil said primly, skating over Dan’s innuendo.

Dan snorted, having looked at Phil’s videos. The first one was “6 Things I Regret Buying!” Phil was holding the ‘stress mushroom’ in the thumbnail—it was completely unchanged from the one in reality. A little farther down, “2017 WANTS ME DEAD” was also exactly the same as reality.

“Does it say something about your channel that the titles and thumbnails don’t need to be changed to make your channel about BDSM?”

This time Phil was the one to mutter “Shut up,” and try to change the subject. “So how do we get out of here anyway?”

“Are you sure you want to?” Dan asked, again raising an eyebrow suggestively, “I mean, ‘AmazingDom’ has a nice ring to it…”

“I swear to god, Dan,” Phil said, shoving him, “We both want to get out of here. Unless you like the idea of no tumblr until you’ve written the week’s video?”

“We need to get out of here before we mock each other to death,” Dan said, slamming his laptop closed. “So what would ‘ruin’ this world? What would make it unreadable? Or unwriteable?”

“I mean, I guess just defying our roles,” Phil said, shrugging.

“But I already took my collar off,” Dan pointed out.

“Maybe we need to do it publicly?” Phil said, “I mean, in the bodyswap, just cutting our hair was enough. That was threatening our bodies, which was the whole idea of the trope. But now…”

“I would’ve thought that defying our roles would have been enough,” Dan said, frowning, “But maybe the author knew we would do that instantly. Maybe that was too easy for us to do.”

“So what’s that leave us to do? Make a video about the situation?” Phil said, unsure.

“Why not?” Dan said, shrugging, “Something like we say we hate our roles?”

Phil was quiet for a moment. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

“Then don’t say it,” Dan said, shooting Phil a warning look.

“I think only you should do the video.”

“Coward. Why the hell shouldn’t you be in it?”

“Think about it,” Phil insisted, “If I’m there, ostensibly as your Dom, it could look like a consensual relationship development. It would be peaceful. But if you’re on your own, you could pretend to rage against being a sub and against me. It would be much more effective.”

Dan knew that Phil was right. The younger man scowled at the ceiling when the author confirmed the fact. He briefly wondered why they were helping the two with their plans to escape, but the thought was replaced by the more pressing matter of recording the video.

“Fine,” Dan grumbled, “But I’m not happy about it. And you’re helping me write the script.”

“Ugh,” Phil sighed, “A script…can’t we just ad-lib it?”

“Not if we want to make it effective.”

“Can’t it just be effective enough?”

“Just shut up and help me write.”

Dan opened a document and stared at the page. He’d written enough scripts to know that an entirely blank page was intimidating, so he at least typed a working title.

“‘My dom is a dick and I hate him’?” Phil read, raising his eyebrows.

“Intentionally lower case,” Dan pointed out, “Not even giving that much respect.”

“This is going to take forever,” Phil complained, flopping backwards to rest his head against the wall.

“Do you want to get out of here or not?” Dan said testily.

“Ugh,” Phil groaned, sitting up again, “Let’s make it short and sweet, yeah? Just like ‘I hate being a sub, fuck Phil, fuck this lifestyle.’”

“Wouldn’t that be short and bitter?” Dan pointed out, his mouth quirking into a smile. But he still typed Phil’s words—as bullet points with room to add more details to each.

“Whatever,” Phil said dismissively.

The following silence seemed to stretch on forever. Neither man wanted to spend the time to create a video, but they both knew it was the only way out of this scenario.

“That was suspicious,” Dan said, breaking the silence, “It almost sounds like the author is steering us away from another way that would work.”

“Are you sure?” Phil said doubtfully, “They could be trying to lead us astray.”

“They haven’t been fighting our progress in any significant way,” Dan pointed out, “They’ve been putting us in situations with full awareness and then just letting us get out. I think they’re getting to the end of the story.”

“So then what other way do you propose?” Phil said.

“I dunno, maybe I could tweet or something? It’s nearly the same audience, just…less work because it’s not in video format.”

“Are you sure it’s less work?” Phil asked, “With the time you take to draft tweets…”

“Shut up,” Dan said, “I’m trying to project an air of impulsively typing them out and pressing tweet before I think about it.” He opened twitter and tried to ignore the handle and the picture and to not read any of his previous tweets. “This isn’t real,” he said out loud, to reassure himself again.

“It’s not,” Phil agreed, “This isn’t you. You’d never be so obedient.”

“Actually shut up,” Dan said. He began typing a new tweet, backspacing here and there and rewording. Phil looked on but didn’t offer any suggestions; this was supposed to come from Dan alone.

“Wow, it’s a twoosh without trying,” Phil said, impressed.

“How convenient,” Dan said, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He pressed tweet and held his breath. Would this be when this world disappeared? He read through the tweet again, hoping it would be enough. He hit the tweet button.

_time to finally be honest. i HATE being a sub. i HATE submitting & i don't even do it willingly. phil, my ""dom"" is a dick & he coerces me for everything including the videos. BDSM lifestyle is NOT based on choice, its one person having total power over another. fuck all of this_

“We’re still here,” Phil said, disappointed, after a moment of waiting. He was hoping they’d disappear instantly and he wouldn’t have to think about the contents of the tweet. The idea of coercing anyone into anything made his stomach turn. He had to remind himself again that this wasn’t real and even in this fake world there was no evidence he’d done that.

“I really thought that would be enough,” Dan said, dejected, “Maybe we really do have to do the video. I am curious what people will say to this, though.”

“Not hard to check,” Phil said, shrugging.

Dan nodded and refreshed the page. There were already over a hundred replies. He scrolled to read them. But the only reply he saw was “WHAT” before the world went black around them.

 +++

They were left in the dark for a surprising amount of time.

“Guess you were right,” Phil commented casually, “A tweet was fine. We just had to wait for people to see it.” They were so used to abrupt, disconcerting universe changes that they weren’t disconcerting anymore. The two of them just stood together, shoulder to shoulder, unwilling to be separated in the face of an uncertain future, even if the transition didn’t scare them anymore.

“Wonder what this will be,” Dan said, “What tropes are left?”

They were dumped unceremoniously onto a wooden floor. Instead of the last two gentle landings into sitting, they found themselves sprawled out and aching.

“Not cool,” Dan said, glaring at the ceiling.

They both pushed themselves to their knees and then their feet, with Dan groaning from the effort and the dull pain in his shoulders. Phil got up before Dan and started laughing.

“I’m not liking you figuring the trope out before me,” Dan grumbled, facing Phil and the wall behind him. But Phil was looking intently behind him, towards the window, so Dan turned around. He, too, started laughing.

“I’m again very glad that we haven’t given a new apartment tour,” Phil said, giggling.

“I mean…an attempt was made?” Dan said.

“Couldn’t they even make a fake apartment that put us on the first floor? Or like…use our last apartment,” Phil said.

“Maybe they were going for authenticity,” Dan said.

“Well, they failed,” Phil said.

They were both staring at a picture window out of their new lounge. It was almost completely covered; only the very top of the window indicated that it was snow that was blocking it. It was the end of the fluffy snow with a grey sky peeking out above it.

“So how high is this snow?” Dan said, “It’s got to be at least eight meters.”

“Isn’t the record for the whole UK like a meter?” Phil asked.

“I think so,” Dan said, finally looking around the rest of the room, “I think this whole thing is supposed to be romantic.”

The room was reminiscent of a romantic scene in a B-list, forgettable movie. Their live Christmas tree wasn’t dried out at all, despite it being two weeks after Christmas in reality. It was still decorated and lit. The rest of the room was lit softly by candles. There was even a huge bowl of microwave popcorn on an end table and it smelled fresh.

“Are we supposed to just…sit here and not be romantic? Is that how we get out of this?” Phil asked.

“Or…” Dan said, a wicked glint in his eyes, “Or we could go outside.”

“Really?” Phil said skeptically, “It’s got to be packed down on the first floor. The trope is ‘snowed in’, after all.”

“We’ve got to try,” Dan said, “This can’t be time-based. That would be boring. And we’re getting to the end of the story, shit is supposed to be speeding up.”

“I guess,” Phil said doubtfully.

“You’re a Debbie downer in all of these,” Dan pointed out, “Why do you keep doubting ideas to get out of these situations?”

“I just don’t want to mess anything up,” Phil said, “They’ve still got total power over us.”

“Not anymore,” Dan said, “We keep getting out of the tropes, faster and faster. They’re not trying very hard to keep us in anymore.”

“Then let’s try,” Phil said, sounding fractionally more optimistic.

They walked down the stairs, walking towards their front door. There was no detail, again because of their lack of apartment tour.

“It sounds like they’re bitter,” Dan said, sounding amused.

“Too bad,” Phil said, sounding equally cheerful.

When they reached the front door, Dan paused.

“The door opens outward,” Dan said, suddenly unsure.

“So?” Phil said.

“So we’ll have to force it open, not just tunnel out.”

“We can do it,” Phil said, sounding more confident than a few minutes prior.

“Then you try it,” Dan said, stepping aside and gesturing for Phil to step forward.  
He did. He hesitantly unlocked the door, took a breath, and turned the handle. As he expected, he couldn’t simply push the door open—but he’d had to try. Keeping the handle turned, he threw himself against the door, the point of his shoulder connecting with the wood.

And the door swung open easily, giving no resistance to all of Phil’s strength. He was thrown off balance and fell straight through the door. Dan could now see that there was no white, no snow behind the door; instead there was another void. Phil had fallen into nothingness when he’d toppled and Dan quickly rushed forward. He paused only a moment before he himself jumped out into the void.

 +++

Even though they’d fallen separately, they landed together. Onto Phil’s bed, specifically. They landed so hard they bounced slightly, and Dan’s head hit the newly discovered wooden frame of the bed.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Dan said the moment he sat up, eyes watering and hand reflexively reaching up to cover his nose. He figured out the trope first this time, at least. He rolled his eyes at the author’s snark.

“What the hell do you smell like?” Phil said, covering his nose before he even sat up.

“This is an alpha/beta/omega fic,” Dan said, slowly letting himself breathe through his nose again. He scrunched up his nose. “And my artificial instinct is saying you’re an alpha and I’m an omega.”

“I don’t know anything about this trope,” Phil admitted, “I just know that you smell…like fake cotton candy. Sweet but chemical-y.”

“It’s an entire established universe,” Dan explained, “It’s based on animal mating and pheromones and stuff. That’s why we smell each other.”

“But then what does any of it matter?” Phil asked.

“It depends on the fic,” Dan said, “Sometimes it’s a really strict social hierarchy. Sometimes it’s just so closet furries can use words like ‘heat’ and ‘knotting’.”

“So how do we get out of here?” Phil said, “No offense, but you smell really strong.”

“So do you,” Dan said, “But I mean, the point is that we’re supposed to be attracted to each other’s scent. I’m guessing we’re not mated yet.”

“What?” Phil said, perplexed.

“Sorta like this universe’s equivalent of marriage. Except biological,” Dan said, “Lots of times we’re unmated and living together and we get together et cetera.”

“I have an idea,” Phil said, smiling cheekily, “You said this is based on scent. What if we screw up our scents?”

“What do you mean?” Dan asked, his forehead creasing. Phil just stood up and walked toward the kitchen.

“Do we have any garlic?” Phil asked over his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” Dan said, realizing what he meant.

They crossed the few steps from Phil’s room to the kitchen, being in their previous London flat.

Phil flung open the fridge, burying his face in it. It took a moment, but he did in fact find several cloves of garlic.

“Are we seriously about to rub ourselves down with garlic?” Dan asked doubtfully when Phil held out a handful of garlic.

“Yup,” Phil said happily, pressing the garlic into Dan’s hand, “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” The older man stared down at his hand, hesitating for a moment even though he’d just reassured Dan of the plan.

“So this is the trope where _you’re_ crazy,” Dan said, looking down at his hand.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Phil said, raising his eyebrows. He raised his hand and, taking a breath, pressed a handful of garlic where his neck met his shoulder. The little pieces came apart in his hand, one of them falling down the front of his shirt.

“I guess,” Dan muttered, looking down at the cloves in his hand. The pungent odor was already spreading around the room. Even though it drowned out the weird ‘pheromones’, it was overpowering to the point of tears. Dan hesitantly rubbed the garlic against his neck, flinching at the bizarre texture. It felt like it was burning his skin. He nevertheless continued until flecks of garlic clung to his skin and clothes. His hands reeked; when he raised his hand to dab at his watering eyes, they began watering all the more.

“Not enough?” Phil said, disappointed. There was no hint of manufactured pheromones left, but they were still standing in the garlic-strewn kitchen. “What else can we do?”

Dan paused a moment. “It’s my turn for a bad idea,” he said.

“Just tell me,” Phil said.

“Let’s order curry.”

“What?” Phil hadn’t known what Dan would say, but he certainly hadn’t expected this.

“We’re trying to ruin scents, right?” Dan said, pulling out his phone, “What’s more pungent than curry?”

“Do you realize how ridiculous this has gotten?” Phil said, letting himself sag back against the refrigerator. “We’ve just rubbed ourselves down with garlic and we’re about to do the same with _curry_.”

“We’re in a story,” Dan said, raising his eyebrows and gesturing around, “This isn’t even possible. And you’re critiquing the trope?”

“Do people actually write this?” Phil said, “This whole…pheromone thing.”

“Definitely,” Dan said, “It’s incredibly popular. Now shut up, I’m googling something.”

Phil stood, perplexed, not sure how to respond. Dan tapped away on his phone, leaning casually against the counter. His confusion paralyzed him for quite a while, conveniently, allowing the author to skip writing any action for him while Dan searched. Phil broke his paralysis to roll his eyes and mutter, “So I’m not worth writing for?”

But he was interrupted as Dan started laughing hysterically. “Is this real?” Dan asked, holding his phone towards Phil, who took it automatically.

It was a page of google search results. The search was “smelliest kind of curry”; the answer that google had suggested was Phall, complete with a snippet about the “British-Asian curry dish”. When he took a moment to understand, Dan elbowed him in the side and explained.

“Phall. Everything related to us has that ‘ph-’ prefix. Get it? Oh my god, they made up a curry.”

“It’s not that funny,” Phil pointed out.

“It totally is. And I’m about to order it.”

The older man realized that he really didn’t have a say in the situation; even if they weren’t being controlled by the author, Dan had gotten an idea in his head and would stubbornly hold onto it until the end of time. He wandered into the lounge as Dan tapped in the order for delivery. He threw himself onto the couch and threw an arm over his face with a level of melodrama usually reserved for Dan.

Speaking of him; the younger man skipped—literally skipped—into the lounge.

“It should be here soon,” he announced, sitting next to Phil, who simply groaned and looked out from under his arm. “Oh come on, don’t you want to get out of here? At least this one is fun.”

“I didn’t know you had a garlic kink,” Phil said, sitting up, “Or is the pheromone thing you’re into? I mean, it’s animals and you _are_ a furry…”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Dan said pointedly, “I just happen to like curry.”

“Do you think we’ll be allowed to eat the curry before we disappear?”

“I hope so.”

“Do you want to put on anime?”

“Sure,” Dan said, grabbing his laptop from where it appeared suddenly on the coffee table. He logged into Crunchy Roll, his premium account allowing him access to HD versions of all his favorite anime.

“What the hell?” Phil asked, looking up, “Is this story a spon?”

“I don’t think Crunchy Roll would sponsor a fanfiction,” Dan said, furrowing his eyebrows.

“A non-spon spon? I think that might be the fanfic equivalent of a shitpost.”

“Do you even know what a shitpost is?”

At that moment, conveniently, there was a knock on the door. Phil felt a sudden rush of apprehension as he remembered how strongly they smelled of garlic. How would the delivery person react?

Dan, not feeling the same, was already skipping down the stairs to open the door, nevermind that their new apartment didn’t have stairs down to the front door. Phil rolled his eyes at the author; instead of resolving an inconsistency, they’d just brought attention to the fact that they knew it was an inconsistency. And now they were just being far too meta. Phil shook his head and directed his attention back to the front door, walking up and standing behind Dan just as the younger man pulled the door open.

The delivery person was a young woman, young enough that they’d normally vaguely worry that she was a fan, if this had been real life. She was normal, brown hair and the standard uniform of polyester-looking polo shirt and ill-fitting slacks. But they could only see her for a moment before everything hit the fan.

The two men, who were prepared, smelled the girl before she smelled them. An invented instinct told Phil that she was a beta, although that information meant nothing to him. The fact gave slightly more information to Dan, but he wasn’t at all focusing on that.

Within a few seconds of opening the door, the woman’s face screwed up, her nose scrunching instinctively to ward off the overpowering smell. It was only a moment before she was dropping the delivery containers on the ground, adding the odor of the curry to the mix. She doubled over, looking like she was about to retch, and—

“Did it!” Dan yelled as the world went black.

 +++

The first sensation that Dan felt was a comfortable bed. Far more comfortable than his own. He sat bolt upright—where was he? The first sight was a generically flowered comforter and a plain hotel wall. The first smell was a characteristic, musky scent. When he recognized it, he slammed his eyes shut again, terrified of what he would see if he didn’t.

“No, no, no, no, no no no…” Dan chanted to himself, willing away the situation. But it didn’t budge, nor had he really expected it to. The only option was to face it.

As he expected, he was lying in a hotel bed. With his shirt off, but thankfully he had pajama pants on. He steeled himself and turned his head. Again, as expected, Phil was lying on the other side of the bed. He appeared to still be asleep, his face pressed hard against the pillow.

Dan became uncomfortably aware of the size of the room in his peripheral vision. Normally these tropes were based around a hotel booking error that resulted in only one bed in the hotel room. But he could make out the vague shape of another bed. Even more apprehension filled him as he struggled to identify the trope. All he could do…he turned his head towards the other double bed in the room.

Recognition flooded him immediately, followed quickly by mortification and fear. There were two men asleep in the other bed, both still asleep. They were spooning and nearly buried in the comforter, but unruly hair was visible: green and red.

Fucking  _septiplier_.

It wasn’t hard to put together the trope after that. Two of the most popular gay ships on youtube, all laying in a hotel room with the smell of sex in the air. There was absolutely no more mortifying trope; now they had to face two men who legitimately thought they’d had a foursome the night before. Unless…

“Phil,” Dan whispered, shoving the oldest man in the room, “Phil, wake up. We need to get out of here before they wake up.”

“Who?” Phil asked groggily, blinking up confusedly at the youngest man in the room. He took a moment to process the wording the author had used and then immediately sat upright. His head whipped around, taking in Mark and Jack and the smell in the air. He came to the same conclusion as Dan.

“If we can get out before they wake up…” Dan said, still whispering.

“You don’t think they can help us get out of this?” Phil said, voice low but not as soft as Dan’s.

“I don’t care,” Dan said, “I’ll stay in this story forever if the escape involves facing Mark and Jack in the context of the morning after an orgy.”

“Dan,” Phil said, “This might be our best bet to get out of here. The trope is…all of us together, right?” Dan cringed and nodded. “So the opposite is denying everything and hating each other, isn’t it?”

“We can do that without them,” Dan said. Phil shook his head.

“We’re in a convention hotel,” Phil said, nodding to the creator passes on the bedside table that Dan had completely overlooked, “So the easiest way would be to all come out together and, well…fuck shit up.” Dan flinched slightly at hearing Phil swear so emphatically; he was impassioned about this. He really thought it would work. The youngest man knew that Phil was probably right; he’d headed up the escape on most of the tropes, so the author was probably giving Phil a turn.

Slowly, hesitantly, Dan nodded. He wasn’t confident in the plan, but he was confident in Phil. Phil smiled slightly but, remembering the situation, it turned grim.

“Hey! Wake up!” He called across the room, “Mark! Jack! Get up!”

The two heads of colorful hair—their iconic colors, despite the fact that both had dyed their hair back to their natural colors—shifted slightly. Jack moved enough that the comforter slipped down and revealed bare shoulders; Dan wished with all his might that they were both at least wearing pants.

“Get up, assholes!” Dan screamed. No point in waiting around for Phil’s comparably quiet yelling to wake them up.

Again, Jack shifted. But this time he didn’t stop. He sat up slowly and groaned without even opening his eyes. When he did, he frowned at Dan.

“No need to shout,” Jack said reproachfully. He shoved Mark, who began to stir as well.

“Alright, genius,” Dan whispered to Phil, “What do we do now?”

“Want a round two?” Mark asked, having sat up. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “Or should I say a round four?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dan said, dropping his face into his hands. The author was being absolutely insufferable. How the hell could he even look Mark in the eye after a comment like that?

“Don’t tell me you didn’t want it,” Jack said, “You _know_ you loved that.”

“Okay, that was the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. You sound like a rapist,” Dan said, shooting a glare at the ceiling. He didn’t know Jack too well in real life, but he knew enough to know that the man would never be so flippant about something like consent. The author wasn’t just manipulating Dan and Phil now—they were making an entirely unrelated person into a creep. This was too far. Phil agreed.

“This isn’t real!” Phil said loudly, before either of the other men had time to say anything else uncomfortable, “We’re in a story. A fanfiction.”

“Oh,” Jack said simply, “Then you don’t remember last night? That’s awkward.”

“We should probably get dressed,” Mark suggested.

Dan and Phil were staring at the two men, absolutely dumbstruck. Mark and Jack both stood up—thankfully both were wearing pants—and began searching for their clothes.

“You…you believe us?” Dan asked, incredulous.

“Well, sure,” Mark said, buttoning his jeans.

“You’re taking this in stride,” Phil said, “How…how are you so calm?”

“Get dressed and we’ll tell you,” Mark said. The two men previously in the other bed were fully dressed at this point. Mark was sitting on the edge of the bed and Jack was sitting in that one chair that hotel rooms always have. “I’m sure you’re uncomfortable being shirtless.”

Dan and Phil both got up somewhat robotically to find their shirts. Their t-shirts from the day before were thrown about on the floor and they pulled them on.

“This is backwards,” Dan said, “You’re supposed to be in shock that it’s not real. And then we insist. Now you’re calm and we don’t know how to react.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, “Why did you just trust us? We literally just ripped apart your reality.”

Mark and Jack looked at each other. “Well,” Jack said, “For one, I hear a keyboard typing. I don’t know if you all do, but it sounds like someone is writing this.”

“And I can hear the narrator,” Mark said, being an absolute asshole and prematurely revealing the punchline. “Can you hear them too? They just insulted me.”

“Yeah, we can hear them,” Dan said, “But Jesus, we both had breakdowns when we realized this. You guys aren’t real. You’re so calm.”

“Look, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s happened in our lives,” Mark said matter-of-factly. He looked at Jack for approval; the green-haired man nodded in encouragement. “You know Darkiplier and Antisepticeye? Well…”

“They’re real,” Jack said. Dan rubbed his face again and Phil just shook his head in disbelief.

“So being in a fanfiction isn’t that strange,” Mark said.

“How do we get out?” Jack said. He sounded conversational, unconcerned.

“Well, what we’ve been…” Phil started.

“—wait, have been? You’ve been in more than one?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” Dan said, grimacing, “The author keeps putting us in different tropes. At first we didn’t always remember each other. But now we always do and the tropes are getting shorter as the story comes to an end.”

“That was quite a bit of information,” Mark said, raising an eyebrow, “Did they author have you say that just to recap the story and acknowledge that this is the second to last chapter?”

“You just did it too,” Jack pointed out.

“Fuck,” Mark said emphatically, “Let’s just get out of here. How did you do it before?”

“We go against the trope,” Phil said, “When we were in a dystopian world we got ourselves killed.”

“So how do we disobey a phaseptiplier fic?” Dan asked.

“A big element of that is that we keep it quiet, right?” Mark said, “So what if we just go out into the convention and scream that septiplier and phan are real?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Dan said, shrugging, “These are usually just plain smut. They wouldn’t want to add angst.”

“And it would be angsty if we had to deal with the aftermath of coming out,” Phil explained.

“So let’s go fuck shit up,” Jack said. But he was interrupted.

“I don’t think so,” Mark said, his voice deepening, echoing slightly. The room flickered, turned to black—Dan and Phil were confused at first. It looked like they were exiting the trope, but they hadn’t done anything.

Phil figured it out first, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He, Dan, and Jack drained of color and stood in grayscale; Mark, however, blurred around the edges, developing a strange chromatic aberration. Dan and Phil stood in confusion and fear, with no clue how to fix the emergence of Darkiplier.

Jack, used to this, wasn’t fazed. He walked the few steps to Mark and smacked the back of his head. The world snapped back: the colors refused and the black dropped away from the background.

“Told you they were real,” Jack said casually, “It’s just it’s a dramatic situation and Dark wanted some of the attention.” Mark nodded in mute agreement.

“I swear to god if Anti comes out and we glitch back to the beginning of this or something,” Dan threated at the ceiling.

“Is that how you address the author?” Mark asked. He had shaken his head and shivered a little but otherwise completely recovered from his partial transformation into Dark.

“Yeah,” Dan said, “I mean they can hear us no matter what. But that’s just natural, I guess.”

“Can we just get on with this?” Phil asked, impatient to get through this. He had a feeling that they were close to the end of the story—so the faster they got through this trope, the faster they would reach the end of all of this. But he needed to be careful what he wished for.

“Was that a threat?” Dan growled at the ceiling. It was, in fact, a threat.

“Jaysus, this author is insufferable,” Jack said, frowning. He stood up and started walking towards the door. “Let’s just go already.” He rolled his eyes when the author changed spelling to account for his Irish dialect—apparently it wasn’t enough for the reader to know that he spoke like that, it had to be exaggeratedly reinforced.

Phil, closest to the door, undid the bolt and chain and opened the door. The oldest man was unfailingly polite, even in this situation. He held it open as the other three shuffled out. He shut the door behind them and then realized that he didn’t have a keycard of any sort—apparently he wouldn’t be coming back. So either they’d end up sleeping on the convention floor or the trope was going to end. He jogged a few steps to catch up with the others.

The four men stood waiting for the elevator.

“Do we have a game plan?” Mark asked.

“I thought it was to shout that we’re all fucking?” Dan said. Jack snorted.

“Well, yeah,” Mark said, “But how do we cause maximum chaos?”

“In the main hall, I guess,” Dan said, “The author obviously doesn’t have any idea how conventions work, so we can find wherever they put a load of people.”

“We can try to yell to gather everyone, most people have at least seen our faces,” Jack said.

“And then what, make out?” Mark said sarcastically. Jack just raised his eyebrows.

“I mean…we are fucking. I don’t know about you two,” Jack said-asked to Dan and Phil.

“PDA is gross,” Phil said, scrunching his nose.

The elevator dinged and broke the resulting confused silence. Well, confused only for Mark and Jack.

“We’re not going to go there,” Dan said calmly. And, for once, he was right. He nodded in acknowledgement but not in thanks.

They rode the elevator down to the ground floor, where they assumed the author had placed the main room. The elevator said “lobby” in a strangely seductive voice when they arrived.

“That’s a weird detail,” Mark said and frowned.

“We referenced it in a video,” Phil explained, “How the lift says lobby in a weird way.”

“Do they just put in random references like that?” Mark said, halfway to a laugh.

“Yeah,” Dan said, rolling his eyes, “They make dumb references to stuff that’s been in, like, one video. And then the readers think they’re the best fans ever for understanding the references.”

“Readers?” Jack asked because he hadn’t said anything in a while and the conversation had to stay balanced between the four people for arbitrary narrative reasons.

“What the fuck?” Jack asked, “That was like, weirdly self-aware.”

“They do that sometimes,” Phil said, “I think it’s just to add another layer to this meta gimmick.”

“You’re adding another layer by saying that,” Dan pointed out. Phil was about to open his mouth to repeat the same thing back when he was cut off.

“Okay, seriously, that’s already gotten old,” Mark said, “We’re still standing in this elevator and it’s been like five minutes since the doors opened.”

“Fine, let’s go,” Dan said, leading the way out into the corridor leading to the main convention hall. His stomach began to knot as he walked farther and the din from the convention hall grew louder. What if the author didn’t cut the story this time? What if they were left to face the consequences, even for a few hours? He wasn’t sure he could. He was voluntarily walking towards the exact situation that he’d spent the past eight years fiercely preventing. They’d bent over backwards to avoid any definitive statements. Why was he doing this? Was this life, this reality, really worse than what he was about to face?

“Yes,” Phil said simply, having heard Dan’s internal monologue being spoken by the author, “It is worse.”

“But we—” Dan said, voice shaking. Phil took another quick step to catch up and then knocked his shoulder against the younger man’s.

“It is worse,” Phil asserted, “They’re trying to talk you out of it. That means they’re scared—we’re getting close to ending this one.”

“That does make sense,” Mark piped up, “It sounds like they’re trying to take back control.”

Dan took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as they continued to walk. “We’re going to do this,” Dan said confidently, both to himself and to the author. Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder.

He still led the way as they walked closer to the hall. His steps only faltered for a moment as he crossed the threshold into the main convention area. He was suddenly surrounded by noise and disorienting light. But then he wasn’t sure if the light was from the room or from his eyes as he grew more lightheaded. Before he had the chance to collapse, he felt a hand close around his wrist and tug him forward, back to a stable position on his feet.

“Look, at least pick on all of us,” Phil said snottily to the ceiling as Dan’s vision and thought cleared. The older man let go of the younger’s wrist when he was able to stand steadily again. Mark and Jack were standing nearby, watching interestedly.

“This is proof that this whole thing isn’t real,” Mark said when Dan and Phil had rejoined the two. He nodded at the crowd spread out in front of them, all with their backs turned to the four men. “No one has recognized us.” Jack snorted.

“At least the author accurately captured your big ego,” Jack said conversationally.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over my twenty million subscribers,” Mark said. But he exaggerated looking down his nose at Jack and he was clearly joking. Mostly. Jack snorted.

“I think they’ve got your personality down great,” Jack said, grinning.

“I know this is funny banter that bounces all of our personalities against each other,” Dan said, “But I’m getting anxious again, can we just do this already?”

“Do we split up or just all shout together?” Mark asked.

“Together,” Phil said decisively.

The crowd was sticking around the walls of the room, leaving a decently-sized open area directly in the center of the hall. The four men walked forwards into it, Phil leading the way. Even as they began feeling eyes on them and hearing excited whispers, they didn’t stray from their plan.

But when they finally stood in the direct center of the huge room, they all felt the same uncertainty that Dan had felt minutes before. There were now hundreds of eyes on the four men, but they still hadn’t spoken.

In the corner of his eye, Phil saw a flicker on the floor. He turned toward the source—Jack. Standing with a look that was halfway being terrified and terrifying, his skin was slowly becoming greener and his head jerked to the side.

Mark muttered something about _attention whore_ under his breath. Before Anti could completely materialize, Mark took the initiative.

“Septiplier is real!” He yelled, his loud voice carrying around the hall. Hundreds of eyes turned towards the four men. Some stared in confusion, some in annoyance, some in shock, and a few in eager excitement.

“He’s right!” Jack joined, “Mark and I fuck whenever we can see each other!”

“That was an unnecessarily detail,” Dan muttered under his breath, stalling from his own confession. Phil heard him and realized that it would be up to him—Dan wasn’t going to go first.

“Phan is real too!” Phil said. He hadn’t spent his years on youtube screaming, so his voice wasn’t as loud, but it reached every ear anyway—the entire hall had gone quiet.

“We’re together,” Dan said, voice slightly softer and noticeably shaky.

The four fell quiet and as they did, the buzz in the hall kicked up, far louder than it had been when they’d stepped in. One voice carried above the noise.

“Kiss!” Tyler Oakley yelled from a corner of the room where he’d been doing a meet-and-greet. He repeated, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

The other people in the hall picked up the chant. Every single person was chanting, even those who looked like they had no idea who any of the four were.

Jack looked at Mark and shrugged. They stepped closer together and Jack draped his arms around Mark’s shoulders. As they leaned in, Dan looked at Phil with pure terror.

“We’re not,” Phil said resolutely.

“What if we have to?” Dan said, voice hardly above a whisper.

“We’re not,” Phil said again, in a way that indicated that the matter was closed.

Mark and Jack had their foreheads resting against one another’s, grinning like schoolgirls.

Someone—thankfully not Tyler this time, the author wouldn’t be that cruel to someone not involved—from the crowd yelled, “Dan and Phil, kiss!”

It came from behind Phil and he whirled around, face darkening as he searched out the speaker. He was _done_ with the situation. He knew that the author wouldn’t let him fall so out of character as to punch an onlooker. The tall man walked menacingly toward the crowd, which drew back. But he still couldn’t see who’d spoken.

Before he could search out the culprit, the light in the hall dimmed. The crowd and the walls followed, the noise becoming muffled.

Mark and Jack weren’t blurring. Dan and Phil were confused—were the two going to continue on in the story with them?

“Bye,” Jack said, smiling sadly, “Wish we’d hung out under better circumstances.”

“Call us when you get back to the real world, yeah?” Mark said, “Maybe we can become actual friends.”

“Of course,” Phil said, unsure if he’d actually do it, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Dan said, “I hope the world lasts for you.”

The two men faded away into the blackness that the world around them had become. As so many times before, Dan and Phil stood alone together in the void.

But unlike before, they began to fade away from each other. When Dan looked over, Phil was becoming transparent, blurring. The older man looked back at Dan in fear as Dan faded in his vision. Neither had time to utter a word, a goodbye, an exclamation before the void consumed the other completely. They each stood alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the idea of bodyswapping as a trope goes to @PiperMashea. And I've tried to keep up with irl dnp in the story, but Phil ended his fringe so recently and the iconic "fuck" happened even more recently and I had so much written that I can't stand to go back and edit it all.
> 
> I hope y'all like this. I really have been working on this for seven months. And I really do apologize because I probably didn't need to make you wait this long. The pacing turned out much weirder than I intended, but I'm still proud of this chapter as a whole. Not all of this was beta'd. I know I keep making excuses for why this isn't perfect despite being in progress for months.
> 
> Please leave a comment with what you think if you'd like. I promise the (real) final chapter will be out by the end of May. Edit: okay my schedule made a liar out of me, let's aim for mid June. Edit: okay let's just say that I'm going to finish this. It's coming up on a year since I started but I promise I'll see it through. There's only one more chapter and it's already begun. It's just that I have classes during the summer so I'm not able to knock it out like I could if I was in normal school.


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